The Italian Castle Affair
Elizabeth Pulford
Smashwords Edition
Copyright
2012 Elizabeth Pulford
Smashwords
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This is a work of fiction. No resemblance to any persons or situations is intended.
Originally published 2004, in print format, as ‘Castello Italiano’
The Italian Castle Affair
Bari Railway Station - 1963
“Photo,” said Coral, pulling her camera out of her pack.
“Do you really want to remember?” snapped Doreen.
“One day you’ll be glad I bothered.”
“Come on, Doreen,” persuaded Jean.
Doreen huffed. “Hurry up then.”
“Smile.”
They smiled.
Click.
“Don’t move. One more, with me as well.” Coral turned. “Scusame,” she said to the Italian man standing beside her and pointed to her camera.
“Ah, si si.”
Coral joined her two friends.
“Okay?”
“Let’s at least try and look happy,” said Jean.
They all grinned.
Click.
Chapter 1
Bracken’s Beach - New Zealand
My goodness! thought Jean, it was going to be weird seeing Doreen and Coral after all this time. Thirty-nine years. And for a second her head swam, washing away all sane thoughts, swamping the shore of her mind like the sea. What was she doing? Really doing?
She shivered, and then pausing she stooped to pick up a nice piece of driftwood. Already in her mind she saw it on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, together with the wild grass. She tucked it into her pocket.
To the west the hills were dark against the raw rim of sky. Last night’s storm had swept out to sea, leaving behind great lumps of seaweed, chunks of wood and a bleak bitterness.
Yet not so in Italy. Where the heat would be stealing between your toes and the sun scorching the dark shadows.
Jean walked with her face turned towards the ocean; the collar of her old blue jacket pulled tight around her cheeks, a knitted hat covering her head.
High above a seagull screeched and swooped. She glanced upwards. Saw its wide wings, felt its freedom, heard its wild cry.
Damn you, Ramon.
Did she really need to go back there? Return to the past?
Yes.
Then she’d better get cracking. With that thought in mind Jean swung round and marched along the damp sand with a determined step towards her cottage.
“Let the deed begin,” she muttered as she flung open the back door and stalked into the kitchen. She pulled out the piece of bleached wood and placed it on the bench, took off her jacket and hat, dumping them both on the stool beside the bench and then hurried through to her bedroom at the back of the cottage.
The room was small and blue, like the sky on a sunny day, like Italy, with a half curved ceiling and three tiny windows.
Jean picked up the grey, crease resistant trousers and jacket, which had been carefully laid over the chair for the last two days, a pair of knickers and her oldest bra for total comfort, on the advice of a well-travelled friend, and went to shower. She had forty-five minutes before the taxi was due.
Vern arrived five minutes early. When Jean saw the familiar black and red car draw up outside her place she snapped out the extending handle of her brand new navy suitcase then with her face set walked towards the front door.
“Morning,” said Vern, “so you’re off then.”
“I am,” replied Jean, settling herself in the front seat beside him.
Vern started the engine, did a swift U-turn and then headed towards the small airport, ten kilometers out of town. “You’re lucky Ron let you out of the classroom for a bit.”
Jean grimaced. “It wasn’t without a fight. I pleaded mental instability if I didn’t have time off.”
He laughed. “I can imagine that being the case with someone like Ron. A stickler for rules and paperwork.” He slowed the car down at the crossroad.
“Italy, eh? Lucky you. You’ll be heading into summer.”
Jean nodded. She had this sudden desire to taste olives again. Not in a café here, but in the country where they belonged, swimming about in a salad like beautiful black eyes. Sharp and salty, stinging her tongue.
“Holiday! Is it?”
“Not exactly. More a reunion of sorts.”
Felicity House - Vancouver
The phone rang.
“Coming,” said Doreen her long legs striding across the room. She whipped up the portable phone. “Yes.” A pause, then, “It’s okay. Come on up if you want. No – it’s fine.” Another pause. “Julio,” she said, speaking slowly. “You know we’ve talked about this and you’re not a problem. You will never be a problem. Now I’m making coffee and expect you up here in five minutes.” She pressed the off button, put the phone on the bench, plugged in the jug and then rinsed two used mugs from the sink.
She should be packing, not having to deal with this.
A few moments later a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called.
A short, dark stocky youth appeared with a band of pale hair and barbed paraphernalia stuck into his nose and ears.
“Here,” said Doreen, handing him a steaming black coffee.
He took it.
“Tell me what happened.”
The youth didn’t speak for a moment, however when he finally opened his mouth he let out a pistol of foul language finishing with, “She’s not gonna be treatin me like that. She’s real asking to be done over.” He sucked at the coffee.
“And what good would that do?” said Doreen, guiding him towards the secondhand sofa, which squatted beneath the wide window. “We’ve talked about this before. Haven’t we?”
Some of the anger drained from his face.
Doreen sighed. “Did you tell Ria what we had discussed?”
“She don’t listen to nobody. Especially not me.”
“Then I will speak to her again.”
A small silence filled the room.
“What’s we going to do when you’ve gone?”
“You know very well. We’ve been over this many times, Julio. If you have a problem you go and talk to Carla.”
He made a rude noise with his mouth and glared at the floor. “Why’s you going away anyway?”
Doreen ignored his question. “It’s either Carla or back on the street,” she said, leaning over and looking into his face. “Which?”
Julio pouted and then said, “Yeah well, I’s not gonna be bossed about by no girl.”
Doreen hid a smile. “No. Of course not.”
“So! You’d better tell her that.”
“I’ll speak to her before I leave.”
“And that Ria as well?”
“Yes. And Ria.”
“Okay then.” He rose to leave. “But you gotta know it’s war if I’s catch that Ria anywhere’s near my stuff again. You hear?”
Doreen nodded and guided him towards the door. Then taking his mug she gently ushered him out into the hall.
“I’ll be back bossing you around before you know it,” she said with a quick smile and shut the door. With a loud sigh she went over to the cupboard beside the fridge, took out a half used bottle of wine, poured herself a full glass and then went over to the window.
A light drizzle drifted against the glass.
Hell! It was going to be good to get away from all this for a while.
She raised her glass to the congested trail of traffic in the street below.
Grazie, Ramon.
Then she drank.
Burns Farm - Scotland
Coral folded her new nightdress carefully and placed it into the open suitcase on top of the neat row of sandals and shoes. Next she placed her underwear, several skirts, trousers and lastly her sketchpad, pencils and pastels.
Alaster wandered into the room. He gazed at the packed suitcase with an amused expression and shook his head. “I thought you were going for ten days. Not ten years,” he teased.
“I want to look nice,” said Coral.
“You always do.” He came over to the dresser and wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck.
“Mother,” called Fiona from downstairs. “Have you seen my green top?”
“How are we going to cope while you’re gone?” murmured Alaster.
Coral twisted around in his arms. “You’ll be fine. Now,” she said, pulling away. “I need to finish.”
“Mum…” said their daughter, hurrying upstairs and poking her head around the door. “My green top, have you seen it?”
“It’s in the dryer.”
“Thank you.” She disappeared.
“See,” said Coral. “It’s as easy as that.”
“Are you sure its just women you’re meeting up with?”
Coral laughed softly. “They’re my two oldest friends. I’ve told you.”
“And I can’t come.”
“No, you can’t.”
Her husband made a disgruntled sound and then followed Fiona down the stairs. “Wait until it’s my turn,” he called back. “Then we’ll see how easy you let me go.”
She knew she was lucky. Knew that Alaster adored her. She smiled and went over to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. For the next few minutes she sat choosing earrings, bracelets and other adornments for the trip. However, before including the last piece, a necklace, in a soft padded pouch, she held it up against her bare neck, gazed at it in the mirror. The green stones glinted.
Ah, Ramon. Magnificent.
Then folding her hand around it, she placed it carefully with the rest of the jewellry.
Chapter 2
Bloomford Hotel - London
The city was hot. Stifling. A mini heat wave Jean had been told on her arrival at the hotel at the ungodly hour of five-thirty in the morning by the smart young woman in reception.
Jean shifted about on swollen feet. How dare she look so cool and composed. While her own crease-resistant trousers clung to parts, which were both unhygienic and unattractive.
“Floor Five. Room Sixty-two,” said the receptionist, handing over the key after the formalities had been completed.
“Thank you.” Jean took the key and made her way to the lifts, pulling her case behind her. Thank goodness for wheels these days. On her way she glanced around the quiet foyer seeking the support of one of the ‘well-appointed porters’, indicated in the hotel’s brochure.
However, there wasn’t a movement as she wound her way between the overlarge green plastic plants. Perhaps the well-appointed porters were all having breakfast or still in bed.
She pressed the lift button and then leaned against the cool wall. She wasn’t used to travelling now and certainly not halfway across the world cooped up in a metal machine with a herd of strangers. It had been a tiring flight. Full of unexpected turbulence with most of them arriving at meal times.
The inside of her head hummed. Or was it some machine in the hotel?
Jean yawned. What was the lift doing? Surely not transporting hoards of tourists to their various rooms. She had arrived on her own. She pinged the button again.
Within a few seconds the lift arrived and five minutes later she was thankfully ensconced in her room, sitting on the edge of the bed, her suitcase safely on the rack.
She pulled off her shoes, swung up her legs and puffy feet and then lay back. Nestled her aching neck into the pillows. She closed her eyes.
Bliss.
Jean tried to sleep. But her mind was still flying, floating high above the world. Everything seemed so unreal, yet by the sound of the never ceasing traffic in the street below she knew she was in London or some other equally large city and not at Bracken’s Beach.
With a loud sigh she rolled over and glanced at the clock’s red digital figures. 6.55.
It was still hours before Coral arrived and Doreen.
She climbed off the bed and went and stood by the window. London. After all these years. Whoever would have thought? Certainly not her and never for the particular reason that had brought her back. Jean shook her head, as if trying to shake away the disbelief. She gazed out over the traffic, the buildings and the dawn sky. It looked as if the day was going to be another hot one. She turned away from the scene.
A shower. That’s what was needed.
She went into the small bathroom. Peeled off her sticky clothes as if they were plasters, left them where they lay on the tiled floor and then stepped under the steaming water.
*
Forty minutes later Jean was dressed and feeling suitably refreshed. Coral was arriving around lunchtime, Doreen early evening. Until then time was her own. Jean knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to get out of this lifeless box of a room and walk down London’s pavements once more, find a café and have breakfast. Sleep could wait! She’d had plenty over the years that would stand her in good stead now.
For goodness’ sake she was in London. Get out woman and enjoy!
So wearing a pair of light blue trousers, a loose flowery shirt, (loose for all the wrong reasons) Jean stepped out of the hotel and onto the pavement. Then in a fit of exuberance she took a deep breath of the morning air. Bracken’s Beach it wasn’t, but oh my she felt like twenty again and having just arrived. Except this time she had a money belt, something which had never been thought of in the sixties. And what a fool thing it was too, strapped around her middle like a harness and goodness knows how she was expected to extract any money from it without severely drawing attention to herself? Perhaps it would have been better if she’d worn it outside her shirt, slung it to one side like a gun holster, ready for any crooks skulking amongst the dark crowds.
Jean chuckled.
Come now, behave thyself, but instead she felt like skipping. Joyful yellow steps all over the pavement. Up and over an imaginary rope.
*
By the time Jean finally found a suitable café she had walked several blocks. Gratefully, she sank down onto one of the white slat chairs after choosing a fresh croissant filled with jam and cream and ordering a large cup of coffee. Her thighs felt damp and soggy, like fingers after squeezing oranges. She was unfit. Walks on the beach had not done her any good at all, as much as she told herself it was rigorous exercise.
She bet Doreen would still be all gristle, and there was no doubt in her mind that Coral would have remained gloriously lithe.
Oh well!
So thinking Jean picked up the croissant, and slowly sunk her teeth into the rich pastry. At least she had one thing she could crow about, something that hadn’t dimmed with the years and that was her eyesight. No need for glasses yet; her eyes were still as sharp as they had ever been.
However, her memory was another matter. And one she didn’t particularly want to think about. Yet how could she forget things so easily? Especially events that had happened only last week?
The small café was busy. Bustling with the smell of roasted coffee, plump, yeasty treats and sizzling bacon. People leaning over reading a paper, engrossed in a paperback, talking, touching each other, laughing, or simply staring out the window at the waking up world.
A wisp of sadness fluttered through Jean. Had living in Bracken’s Beach killed her off? When was the last time she had felt more than half alive? Be truthful?
Not for years.
Yes. And where was it?
Italy.
Her eyes misted.
“Flat white,” said a voice near her shoulder.
“What! Oh.” Her thoughts were knocked sideways. She pushed her half eaten croissant to one side to make room for the coffee. “Yes. Thank you.”
When the slip of the waitress had left Jean lifted the fat green cup, curled her hands around its middle, shut her eyes and sipped. The coffee was strong, the milk hot. Perfect.
Thirty thousand feet up – Easy U Flight
Coral closed her eyes and listened to the drumming sound of the engines. She liked flying. It was exhilarating and so much more convenient than bus or train. It was like floating in water, almost, with her face down, eyes open wide staring into the clear water. The sounds muted, cut off from the rest of the world.
“Coffee or tea?” said the hostess, smiling down at Coral.
“Tea, thank you,” said Coral. After it had been poured, she reached out and took the small white cup from the plastic tray. The hostess then proceeded to ask the others in her row. Pressing herself back against the seat Coral hoped the plane wouldn’t suddenly hit a bumpy air pocket, there had already been several on this trip, not that they normally bothered her. However, for the grand meeting with Jean and Doreen she had gone to great pains to choose her outfit carefully and didn’t want it to be splashed with liquid. A good impression was important after all these years and so she had gone to the trouble and expense of buying a designer jacket, a smart pair of black trousers, new shoes and a hand painted silk scarf. She hadn’t been sure about the scarf but in the end decided why not. She didn’t want either Jean or Doreen, especially Doreen, to think she was anything like the person she had been before.
“Are you travelling for business or pleasure?” asked the man, sitting next to her, who had been hidden behind the newspaper since they’d taken off. He sipped a coffee.
“A bit of both,” said Coral, turning and smiling. “London and then Italy.” He looked to be in his late thirties and reminded her a little of Alaster at the time of their marriage.
“Sounds like pleasure to me,” he said with a smile.
“And you?”
“My father’s had a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.” She wanted to reach out and take his hand and comfort him. But also tell him the truth that life had a way of taking away the ones you loved. Took them without a word of explanation, as if it was a universal right and there was nothing you could do about it.
“My mother is beside herself with worry. I’m going down for moral support.”
“Yes.”
Coral cradled her hands around the empty plastic cup. The hurt was still with her after all these years. She knew that. It was as if it had grown a skin around her heart and couldn’t let it go.
“I hope your father is all right.”
“It would help if he stopped smoking.”
Coral nodded and glanced out of the window.
A comfortable silence fell between them.
They were flying into a pillow of cloud.
“We went to Italy once,” said the man, “to Venice. My parents took me. I was about eight and for years I’ve wanted to return. But time seems to have a habit of slipping between the years.”
Coral turned. “Yes,” she said. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“Are you going to a special place in Italy?”
“Yes. You could say that. It’s in the Puglia region. On the coast.”
The man gave her a puzzled look.
“In the heel area of Italy.”
“Not Tuscany then?”
“No…Tuscany hadn’t been discovered, so to speak, when we were there.”
He waited for further explanation.
“I was twenty. I went with two girl friends. We were part of a diving expedition.”
“Now that sounds interesting.”
Coral smiled. “It was in 1963. You know when it was the rage to make love, him lying hot between her naked thighs, and not war. The flower power era.”
He laughed. “You don’t look old enough.”
“You say the right things,” she said, feeling pleased. Feeling the money she had spent on herself now justified. She smiled at him. “Life is full of little treasures. And sometimes they come without any digging.”
“In what way?”
“Well,” she breathed, leaning close, but not too close, “the main reason for returning to Italy is that I’ve inherited a castle.”
The young man’s eyes opened wide and he whistled softly. “A castle. Really?”
“Yes,” said Coral. “Isn’t it astounding.” She settled back into her seat. It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. Why complicate things for this stranger by including Jean and Doreen. A third of a castle didn’t have the same ring to it as a whole castle.
The co-pilot’s voice came over the intercom advising them to fasten their seat belts.
The man folded up his paper.
“It some ways,” said Coral, “now that I’m returning it feels as if I was there only yesterday.” Then she shut her eyes and prepared to land. As they flew into Heathrow the song Moon River sang in her head.
Vancouver International Airport
Doreen dumped the ragged bunch of stolen flowers in the bin. It had been nice of the kids, but what good were they if she was on the move for the next couple of weeks. She knew Marco had pinched them from the Sunnyoaks graveyard.
The Vancouver airport was humming with life. People milling around, munching fatty burgers, chicken and chips, sipping water, slouching, sitting, strolling, reading books, newspapers, anything to make the time pass.
Doreen shuffled from one foot to the other in the check-in queue. It seemed as if she had arrived at the same time as everyone else who was flying to London. She sighed. She should have known to arrive earlier. And she would have if there hadn’t been that incident with Reece and the dog, and the police. Doreen grimaced and shuffled a few steps forward. It seemed a lot of her life had been bound up with the law.
Finally Doreen was free of the check-in queue. She walked up the stairs to the first landing and into the smart airport bar. She knew she didn’t look exactly like a well-heeled businessperson, but at least her jeans had been pressed. Whereas her shirt hadn’t. Still it was partially covered by a green sleeveless jacket.
“Gin, neat. Thanks.”
When she had been served she carried her drink over to a corner table, dumped her backpack on the floor and sat down. She lifted her glass said a silent ‘Cheers’ and swallowed a mouthful.
“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
Doreen shook her head.
“Thank you.” The elderly woman put her glass of white wine on the table and then settled herself down.
God! thought Doreen. She could be Mother. With her hair in that soft roll fastened behind her head, those grey eyes and with that air of old-fashioned gentility. And for a moment her throat clammed up as she saw her mother’s beautiful fingers again, long and slender playing the piano; heard the lyrics gliding up the curved staircase in the gracious old house, late into the night as she lay in bed. She wondered if her mother ever knew the truth about her father.
Doreen shifted about in the chair. It was strange the way a memory surfaced, as if it had been hiding beneath a thin fiber of flesh waiting for a chance to escape and prick at the heart.
“It’s calm outside,” said the woman in way of conversation.
“Yes,” breathed Doreen, letting her mother go, folding her back into the past. She picked up her drink and took a sip. “It’s a good day for flying.”
The woman smiled. “What I do for my grandchildren,” she said with a sigh. “I wouldn’t set one foot in the air if it weren’t for them. But what can you do? You either have to…”
Doreen nodded and stifled a yawn.
“Sorry,” said the woman. “I do have a habit of going on.”
“No, it’s me. Too little sleep.”
“And where are you headed? If that’s not a rude question.”
“London and then Italy,” said Doreen with a smile. “I’m meeting up with my two oldest friends.”
“A yearly reunion, is it?”
Doreen laughed. “We haven’t seen each other for thirty-nine years. Let’s hope we recognize each other.”
“What a wonderful occasion.”
“We’ll see.” Doreen picked up her glass and swallowed the remainder of her gin. She pushed back her chair and stood up.
“Can I get you another wine?” she asked.
“Oh no, thank you. One is more than enough.”
“Can you keep an eye on it?” asked Doreen, pointing to her backpack, lying under the table.
“Certainly.”
Doreen had considered taking her pack with her to the bar, but then thought, no. What did it matter? There wasn’t anything in it worth stealing. Except perhaps the paperback she was halfway through.
Bloomford Hotel - London
The secluded guests’ garden at the rear of the hotel was nice, decided Jean.
Tucked between two wooden fences, one dripping with a white rambling rose, the other with wisteria, both drenching the garden with their potent perfume. At the far end of the area grew a smart green prickly hedge, manicured to perfection. In front of the hedge stood a small sundial. Narrow gardens wound like ribbons at the foot of the fences, giving movement, and were overflowing with a blaze of blues and reds. A hose discreetly watered a clump of delphiniums in the far right-hand corner.
She could have stepped onto the set of a film. A pretty romance. As what, pray? Hardly the young and beautiful heroine. No –more likely the more interesting stepsister or mother. Even years ago her acting career had been a myth. Well, she thought crossly, whose fault had that been? Not hers. She had auditioned enough times. They simply hadn’t recognized her talent.
She sipped her lemonade.
Never mind. That was years ago. This was now. She shifted about on the narrow bottomed chair. Why were all modern chairs so uncomfortable and so thin, she wondered. What had happened to the chairs that had gracious seats?
The three other tables were empty. Jean was glad. It was ridiculous but she felt oddly nervous of the approaching reunion with Coral. After all it had been a long time.
Lifting her drink she sipped at the cool lemonade. Chunks of ice clinked against the glass. She caught one in between her teeth and then sucked it into her mouth, crunching it until the cold slivers slipped down her throat. She had considered having a wine, but no grazie – she decided there would be plenty of time for that later. She wanted to be alert when Coral walked through the French doors.
She leaned forward and using her fingers this time, Jean picked out the largest lump of ice she could find and popped it into her mouth.
“Jean?”
Startled, Jean sucked, sending the chunk of ice skidding to the back of her throat, where it immediately blocked her windpipe. Now, instead of flowing gracefully towards Coral, as she had imagined in her head, she was hunched over making frightening gargling sounds, her eyes popping behind her sunglasses.
Wham! A thud hit her on the back. And another. The second one dislodged the ice and sent it shooting out onto the table where it spun around in a crazy circle like a dying fly.
With tears in her eyes and a vampire throat, Jean turned and whispered, “Zanks.”
“Zink nuzzing of it,” replied Coral with a sweet gurgle.
By now Jean had almost recovered, with air again flowing freely to important parts of her anatomy and brain. She looked up at Coral and seeing her for the first time, nearly choked again. This creature standing before her certainly wasn’t the Coral she had known years ago. What had happened to the painfully shy person who had been afraid of the world? This woman was an alien.
Cameras. Get ready to roll.
“Oh my,” exclaimed Jean.
Okay. Action.
Suck in stomach. Hold it.
“Look at you.”
Hold that pose.
“You are gorgeous,” said Jean, taking in the glamour, the expensive clothes, the whole picture.
Okay. That’s a wrap.
Jean’s stomach sagged.
Pleased, Coral stood for a moment on careful display and then said, “And you, Jean. You still look exactly the same. You’re still as pretty as ever. I can’t believe it after all these years.”
Jean forced a cheerful smile. What couldn’t she believe? That she still looked the same or that they were here together? The pretty bit was of course nothing but a gravy compliment.
Then they hugged and cooed little phrases, such as, “It is sooo good to see you.” “Who’d have thought it?” “Oh. Oh.” “I still don’t believe it.” The last comment made by Jean this time, referring mainly to the change in Coral and not the fact that they were together again.
Finally, they let each other go, like elastic that had finally lost its stretch. Then they eyed each other, in a kind, but slightly embarrassed way, until Coral spoke.
“You look so well, Jean,” she enthused.
Fat! That was what she really meant. Jean could feel herself becoming huffy, indignant. When someone told her she was looking well or healthy she immediately became suspicious, knowing they really meant she had put on weight.
“And you…” responded Jean… “look at you. Totally gorgeous.” Thinking, Why was life so unfair? But mostly, bugger, bugger, bugger!
“How many years is it?” said Coral, sitting down at the table, arranging herself on the chair, knees crossed neatly, hand touching the edge of her sunglasses.
Or did Coral call them shades? wondered Jean now conscious of every little thing about herself. Her own sunglasses had been bought back in the eighties when ‘big’ was in. Now it seemed fashion had swung in the opposite direction and ‘small’ was it. Somehow the swing had missed Bracken’s Beach and, it seemed, her in particular.
“Have you had lunch?” Jean asked, stuffing her black thoughts into a cage in her head. Promising she would only let them out later when she was alone.
“A bite on the plane, but a drink would be nice. A spirulina?”
Jean wasn’t about to show her ignorance and ask what a spirulina was, instead she stood up, declaring, “Let me.” Before Coral could protest Jean shot off towards the open French doors and as she spun into the side of the foyer she was suddenly blinded by the darkness and found herself groping a large pot plant for support. For one dreadful moment thought she had grabbed hold of a short man with large, fleshy ears.
“Is Madam all right?” asked a male voice.
No! Madam damn well wasn’t all right. Outside sat an friend who looked not a day older than forty, yet she was fifty-nine, plus she still had a figure and she could wear a scarf as if it had been born around her neck, the way it fell into graceful folds.
Yanking off her sunglasses Jean gave a hollow laugh. “Yes, thank you. It’s so bright outside.” Because of the distraction she promptly forgot the drink Coral wanted.
She knew it began with S, but she could hardly go up to the bar and start spouting S’s, they would think she had a speech impediment. But what choice did she have?
“Yes,” said the young bar man, whose white shirt glowed and his bow tie sat immaculate under his chin, while his wiry hair grew like parsley alongside a neat parting.
“A spiderummspymumblemumble.”
The young man leaned forward, a puzzled look on his face. “Sorry.”
Jean let out a sigh and decided to confess. “I want a drink that sounds like a spiral.” She was not returning to Coral empty-handed. Not when she looked so gorgeous. If this young man couldn’t help her then she would simply order a glass of champagne and tell Coral she felt the occasion deserved it. Yes, that was much tidier than a confession. She would never have made a good Catholic.
“Spirulina?”
“Oh! Yes, that’s it.”
“One is it?”
“One thanks.”
When it was served up, green with a bit of froth on the top, and looking like a liquid compost, Jean said, “What’s in it?”
“Seaweed and barley amongst other things. A good energy booster.”
“Yes. Right.” Stepping carefully Jean made her way back outside, proud of her achievement. On this trip she would not be made to look like the local hick who was on her first trip for years, even though it was the utter truth.
“Here we are,” she said, placing the glass in front of Coral.
“You always did take care of me,” said Coral with a smile. “Stick up for me.”
“Did I?” Yes, of course she did. Hadn’t she always liked to help those who were being picked on? They both smiled at each other, yet neither of them voiced the obvious, ‘…against Doreen’.
“It is peculiar though,” said Coral, tinkling her fingernails on the glass.
Jean waited, eyeing her own drink wondering if she should risk it or wait until the ice had completely melted. She peered down into the liquid. The remaining shards looked safe enough to navigate her windpipe.
“Ramon leaving the castle to us. Don’t you think?”
Jean felt her skin prickle. She nodded and picked up her glass. “I’ve been wondering the same myself.”
“You don’t think,” said Coral, dipping her finger into the green sludge, lifting it out and licking it with her neat pink tongue, “it’s because of…that it has anything to do with…”
“No,” cut in Jean. “How could he know? No!” she stated, wishing Coral hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t brought it up for airing, for now it felt as if a layer belonging to that awful night had begun to peel back the edges of the black wind, it wasn’t really all their fault, as if now it belonged to the future instead of the past.
“Do you think he ever married?” said Coral.
“Ramon! Probably.” Jean shrugged. She didn’t want to think of him with a wife and children. “What Italian man doesn’t marry?” she added and then changed the subject. “This garden’s pretty, isn’t it?”
“Oh. I’m so pleased you like it. I took a chance of where I should book. I wasn’t sure. You think the hotel is all right then?”
“Very nice.” So…it seemed that beneath the beautiful exterior there was still a fragment of the old Coral.
“We were lucky to get in. Apparently there was a cancellation half an hour before I phoned. A group of Australian tourists decided to stay in Turkey.”
“What time is Doreen due?”
“Around seven.”
“The restaurant here looks nice. I poked my nose in before coming outside. I adore French food. Should we book I wonder?”
“Yes,” said Jean. “Let us make the decision.”
“I’m sure Doreen would approve,” said Coral with a nod.
A pause, then, “Goodness!” exclaimed Jean. “Do you remember that old pervert, Riley?”
“Do I. Every Friday night drunk and yelling his way past our place up the zigzag.” Coral pressed her fingertips together. “Once he said he’d give me a peppermint if I kissed him.”
“Did you?”
“I said I’d have to ask Mum first,” replied Coral, smiling. “You wouldn’t have believed how fast he went up those steps!”
Jean laughed. “It’s funny what comes back, isn’t it? I’d quite forgotten about him until now.”
“Have you ever been back to Jubilee Street?”
“Only once since Mum died.” said Jean. “Certainly not recently. What’s the point? It’s all different now you know. Most of the cottages on the hill have been torn down and the land taken over by St Luke’s. Catholics everywhere now.”
Cut. Cut.
“Sorry!” Jean grimaced.
Coral shrugged.
“It’s not the street we used to know,” blundered on Jean. “Over forty years, there are bound to be changes.”
Coral picked up her glass. “I’ve often wondered about returning and visiting it.”
“You’re kidding! Why?”
Coral didn’t reply immediately instead she sipped her drink. Then: “To lay a few ghosts I guess.”
“The bulldozers have done that for you.”
“Is our house still there?” asked Coral in a quiet voice.
“Do you mean your Gran’s place or…?” her question floated between them like a silk shadow.
“Not Gran’s.”
“Yes, it is.”
Coral turned away, the small vein in the side of her neck twitching. “I hated her for doing what she did, you know. Hated her for years. How could she leave me like that?”
What was going on here? wondered Jean. One moment we’re having a bit of a laugh, now it’s turned into a reunion with blood. She extended her hand, put it lightly over Coral’s.
Coral pulled her hand away. “You’re shocked, aren’t you?”
“No,” said Jean. Thinking, yes.
“I tried it?”
“Tried what? Jean grabbed at her drink, now lukewarm, and gulped down the remainder, suspicious she was about to hear something uncomfortable. A large wine next, she thought. Definitely something driven by alcohol.
“To top myself.” said Coral, smiling sweetly. “I think that’s what they call it these days.”
“Top yourself?”
“Suicide. Tried it twice, but it seems I didn’t have the same touch as my mother.”
By now the sun had swung round and was busy blistering Jean’s neck. “I had no idea. I didn’t know. I’m sorry…I…” Jean could hear herself blathering, fumbling in shock at Coral’s confession. Yet through all the years with the cheerful messages on Coral’s Christmas cards she never would have guessed. There had been nothing ever unhappy in her notes and especially no hints about any suicide attempts.
“No,” breathed Coral, “I wasn’t a patch on my mother, even though they said I was like her. Do you think I am like her?”
Jean opened her mouth to reply but Coral continued as if she had never asked the question.
“On the outside I think I look like her, but on the inside we are different. Wouldn’t you say?”
A bottle of brandy, Jean thought, rather than wine. Something to really drown the sting of what was happening here. She would buy a bottle and keep it hidden, use it when things got rough, like now. Oh, Bracken’s Beach how far away you seem. She didn’t want to know, didn’t want to feel Coral’s pain, for it was obviously still there, carried around for years, until now, until she had come face to face with someone who knew the truth about her mother. And of course it had to be ‘good old Jean’, the once-upon-a-time rescuer of princesses from high towers.
Smile, you’re on ‘Candid Camera’.
“Still,” wound up Coral with a shrug, “what’s it matter now? It happened a long time ago and I’ve put it behind me.” She smiled and showed a dazzling stretch of teeth.
“Mmmm,” mumbled Jean her mouth closed, keeping it thus in case words flew out, which she had no intention of saying. Words such as, ‘If you ever need to talk…’ Instead she marshalled up her thoughts into a silent army, to be shot if they uttered a comforting word, and said, “Perhaps we should go and book the table for tonight? Otherwise we might miss out.” Was she being horrible? Was her tone too casual? Did it sound as if she didn’t care? As if she had a prickle in her tongue?
“Good idea,” said Coral.
Apparently not.
Standing with a flourish, Coral flicked her scarf over her shoulder, as though flicking away the memory for good. “By the way, Doreen doesn’t need to know about…you know…what I’ve told you…” Her voice tapered off as she glided towards the French doors.
“No. Right.” Jean collected up the two glasses and wondered if she stole the ceramic mug in the shower unit (simply because she liked it very much, plus it would go perfectly in her bathroom at home) whether the hotel would notice and if they did would they arrest her? She would plead insanity, plus a drinking problem, which she could well have by the time she returned home, if this trip continued in the same vein as the last half hour, for the next thirteen days.
Airport shuttle bus
The first thing Doreen did after the plane had landed and she had been cleared by customs was to pull out her cell phone and turn it on. ‘Two calls’ it blinked.
For God’s sake! She hadn’t been out of the country two minutes and Carla had phoned. No doubt about something trivial. It was to be expected, but she would do okay. She’d have to. Doreen straightened her shoulders. Should she call her? No…leave it. She picked up her gaudy tartan bag and strode towards the exit. Outside she found a half-empty shuttle bus, four down in the sprouting shuttle queue.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
“The Bloomford Hotel, thanks.”
He nodded. “Another ten minutes.”
“Fine.” Doreen dumped her bag beside the pile of other luggage and climbed on board, glad to get out of the oppressive heat. It didn’t suit London to be this hot. This was a Christmas card city…snow and old buildings, bright lights streaming from shop windows, people scurrying against the bitter weather, boots and long coats, heads hugging into their collars. Not a city languishing under a sweaty sky.
She settled back in the stiff, upright seat and watched the people milling around the pavement. A mother and two children. Two middle-aged women laughing. A youth, a bit scruffy standing against the wall a pack at his feet. At the sight of him her breath stilled. She stared. He was like her Hank. Built solid, straw-coloured hair and tall.
Darling, dearest Hank.
Moisture stung Doreen’s eyes.
Such a stupid big lug.
How long ago? Forever. Like her childhood. Forever. Like it had never happened. Like he had never existed. Almost.
“This taken?”
Doreen dragged her gaze away from the youth, turned and nodded at the teenage girl.
She sat down and pulled her jacket tight around her middle. Her thin face was drawn and pale.
“Aren’t you hot?”
“I’m okay.”
Of course you are. As she had been with Hank.
“First time in London?” asked Doreen.
“Kind of.”
What sort of answer was that? Kind of. The same answers she had given years ago to anyone who had tried to pry into her own life.
Doreen pulled out a packet of crisps and tore it open. The contents flew into the air, and then landed in her lap.
“Oh! Stuff it!”
A smile ghosted the girl’s mouth.
“You want one?” said Doreen. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” The girl picked up a couple.
“There’s something about crisps and buses,” said Doreen. “Something comforting, I think.”
The bus driver boarded the bus, counted the heads, and then swung down into his seat.
And as they pulled away from the curb Doreen turned back to the youth on the footpath for a last look. But he had gone.
Like Hank.
Bloomford Hotel - Room Sixty-two
Squatting down in front of the compact minibar, wearing only a bra and a pair of knickers (definitely not the frilly lace and string kind - how did they keep all their bits in? Jean had often wondered), she inspected the cans of drink.
She rifled her way through all kinds of beer and soft drinks, until…ahhh… that would do nicely and so thinking she lifted out a can of ginger beer. Normally, as far as she was concerned the produce in these fridges was out of bounds. Strictly taboo. They were nothing but exorbitant money traps.
Jean pulled herself up and plunked the tin on top of the fridge.
She eyed it and sighed. What a pity. She was about to break her unblemished record. Still - this was an emergency.
Wasn’t it?
Yes.
Even more so than that dreadful time when she, and another teacher from a different school, who snored like an elephant, (did they snore?), had shared a hotel room at a teacher’s conference. My God she had been tempted then.
It had been the meeting with Coral.
Kind of and everything else.
She needed courage before meeting Doreen.
You’re a coward?
Who says?
Oh, Ramon, why have you done this?
Jean stretched over the fridge to the small shelf above it and plucked out a
miniature bottle of whisky from amongst the collection. Most convenient, she noted wryly. With a ‘fzzzt’ of the can and a quick twist of the bottle lid she combined the two and then took her drink and went over to the window. She stared out at the cloudless blue sky and then down at busy roads.
Why was it that standing above a city sometimes seemed like the loneliest place in the world? In a way it reminded her of that dreadful bedsitter she had taken in London after Italy. It had lain beneath the ground like a small grave, and when she had stood and stared up at the people’s hurry feet, no one had seen her, they hadn’t even known she was there.
Was it because everyone seemed to be going somewhere except you?
But you’re going to Italy. Aren’t you?
Yes.
Jean sipped her drink.
How many times over the years had you wanted this?
Too many.
So?
That was back then.
Jean gulped down a large mouthful. She shivered in the heat, shook off the whisperings of Ramon and the wind.
This was now.
Tipping back her glass she finished her drink.
Why couldn’t unwanted memories be shredded? Destroyed at the source? Why did one have to carry them forever? It seemed futile, a childish punishment in a way.
Forget about them.
So thinking Jean turned away from the window and went into the bathroom to wash the glass.
Who knew when she might need it again?
Bloomford Hotel - Room Sixty-four
Well, thought Coral as she entered her room and shut the door behind her, that had gone well. Except for the outburst about her mother. That hadn’t been good.
No.
She would be more careful from now on, keep all ‘that stuff’ under a tighter rein. Make sure it didn’t happen again.
Jean was still as sweet as ever. With her pretty face and gentle ways. It was a pity she’d let herself go though.
Put on weight.
She had become like a soft sponge cake.
Coral went over to the mirror and stood sideways.
Yes, she had kept her figure. But then she had been careful. Crisps and fatty foods and the likes made her feel squeamish.
She smiled, black eyes staring into the swallowing darkness of sea, and then turned away from the mirror.
Still, Jean did have lovely hair. Always had. At least she had retained that.
Coral walked over to the bed. She slipped off her scarf. It floated down onto the bright blue cover like an autumn leaf.
Now, we have to think about meeting Doreen.
Her shoulders tensed a bit.
Stop it! You’re not a child any more. She was probably very nice. She had probably lost some of her edge. Her Christmas cards had been fine. Stop worrying.
At least Jean had been happy with her suggestion that they meet at the hotel bar, Zac’s, for a pre-dinner drink.
Dear old Jean. And her teeth still looked as if they were still all her own.
Coral glanced at her watch. Plenty of time yet. A couple of hours.
Now have we done everything? She walked over to the business-like cream-coloured desk set against the internal wall. She picked up her pad and pen and crossed off:
*meet Jean
*book table at restaurant
*leave message for Doreen
She snapped the pad closed.
Good!
Coral knew the next item on the list was to ring home, see how they were coping without her. It had only been a matter of hours.
Still.
First though we needed to sort out an outfit for dinner tonight. Going over to narrow wardrobe Coral slid back the door and for a few idle moments let her fingers flutter between the three ‘dress-up’ dresses.
Gorgeous.
All of them. Soft to touch. Beautiful to wear.
Coral sighed out loud.
It had been a difficult decision as to which ones to bring and which to leave behind.
But once her decision had been made she had lovingly packed the three garments between beautiful sheets of gleaming white tissue paper. She had always loved the sound that new tissue paper made.
That sound had meant surprises.
Every childhood birthday and Christmas she had saved the sheets, both coloured and white, and had then turned them into butterflies and hung them from her lamp. And when the moon shone straight in through her window, they looked like angels with wide wings, floating in the dark. Coral would lie in bed and imagine herself flying through the night, on a stream of moonlight, guided by her magical creatures.
She smiled as she remembered and wondered if she could make a butterfly now from the tissue paper. Probably not and besides why would she want to? All that belonged to another time.
Now back to business. Which dress for tonight?
When the three of them were coming together for the first time since the twenty-second of September 1963, twenty past twelve…
She remembered the exact date, could feel herself again looking up at the big round clock at Waterloo Station as Jean and Doreen walked away from her, Jean looking back and waving, Doreen striding between the crowds. The date and time seemed to have been stamped deep inside her head. Then they had gone and she was on her own.
Coral pulled herself out of the memory with a small shudder.
Don’t think about it.
Swiftly she unhooked the hanger from the rail, the one holding the blue dress, and took it over to the full-length mirror in the bathroom and draped it up against her body. Perfect, she decided. Sleeveless, with a low scooped neckline, soft yet flattering for her age, the garment falling with grace to the middle of her calves. The luxurious, silkiness made it seem more expensive that it was. Even though it was stifling hot she would wear the long sleeved black beaded top.
Absolutely.
The top would look perfect draped over the back of any chair. She didn’t care what Doreen thought. Not a fig, not any longer.
Then a shadow of guilt crossed her mind. No…now she was being unkind. After all it had been Doreen who had been strangely caring after her mother had committed suicide, as if Doreen somehow had felt herself to be responsible. Or that she understood how it felt to be on one’s own.
But everyone knew that wasn’t the case.
Out of the three of them Doreen had always been the strongest. The most self-assured. She had always been the one who’d had the most confidence.
Bloomford Hotel - reception area
Doreen unfolded the note. She recognised the writing at once.
Coral’s.
The message had been written as carefully as all her Christmas cards over the years.
Doreen shook her head.
It always seemed as if Coral was hiding something, scared of revealing what was beneath the surface of life, putting down pretty words as a frilly covering.
We are dining at eight in Le Petit Blanc, the restaurant
attached to Bloomford’s. Drinks first at Zac’s.
Please join us.
God damn it!
Nearly forty years.
Please join us.
Why couldn’t Coral have written something like, ‘Get your arse down by eight, can’t wait’.
Except she would never use a word like arse.
Well – whatever.
Something that would have been more welcoming than this frigging formal note.
After stuffing the piece of paper into her jacket pocket Doreen strode over to the lifts and stabbed the ‘Up’ button. She thought she’d left all the kids behind, but apparently not.
Chapter 3
Bloomford Hotel – Zac’s
Doreen arrived at the bar first. Slipping onto a stool she pulled the bowl of nuts towards her, took a few and tossed them into her mouth.
The room was dim. The walls were painted in a dark plum shade, the tables and chairs mauve, the accessories a deep pink. These accessories were in the form of vases and silk flowers placed at strategic points to lighten the corners. The only other light came from the shell-shaped lamps on the side walls and behind the bar itself. The room was half full of tourists, you could tell by the way they held their bags and money purses close to their bodies, as if suddenly a masked man was going to jump them. Doreen chuckled and helped herself to another handful of nuts.
“Yes?” said the barman, after serving the customer two down from Doreen. His dark hair was smoothed over his head, as if it had been painted on, his clipped moustache straight and neat. Not like her father’s moustache, thought Doreen, which had been bushy and prickly and dug into her skin whenever he had kissed her.
“I’d like something different,” she decided with a nod. “Something with a kick. A punch to celebrate the old days.”
“Very good.” The immaculate middle-aged barman smiled, the corners of his mouth flicking up like a switch. “Then I would recommend a Red Alize Mosa.” He went on to explain. “It is champagne and Alize Red Passion, which is passion fruit juices blended with a fine cognac. Chilled.” He waited expectantly, his hands folded like a napkin against his chest.
“Yeah. Okay. Three, thanks,” said Doreen. This would be her treat, her one and only (heck she wasn’t well off) and if Jean or Coral refused, then she would drink the lot. All at once it seemed a lifetime since she had spent any time and money on herself.
“Doreen?”
Doreen swung round at the tap on the shoulder and immediately recognised her old childhood friend. “Jean!”
Hovering, Jean stood like a wooden doll, stiff, except for a lopsided grin.
“God!” exclaimed Doreen. “It’s a lifetime, isn’t it?”
Jean nodded.
Doreen left the stool and stood with her arms open wide. Jean went inside them.
“Right!” said Doreen, pulling away. “That’s enough of that. We don’t want to get maudlin.” She grinned and returned to the stool. Jean hoisted herself up beside her and perched like a plump robin as if waiting for tidbits.
“How was your flight?” asked Doreen, rifling through the bowl for the cashew nuts.
“Long,” replied Jean with a deep sigh. “And yours?”
“Fine.”
A small silence then, “It’s odd isn’t it?”
“You mean us meeting like this?”
Doreen laughed. “That as well. No, I meant Ramon.”
The barman arrived at that moment, halting the conversation. “Your drinks,” he said.
“Thank you.” Doreen turned to Jean. “My treat,” she said, pushing one towards her. “Champagne, passion fruit and cognac.”
“Heavens! It looks like something from another world,” said Jean with a wild giggle.
Still the same old Jean, thought Doreen with a smile. Giggly, nervous and nice. Always nice. But it was encouraging to know that some people in the world remained the same through the years. She picked up the champagne glass. “Cheers.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Coral?”
“You can,” said Doreen. “But she’s late, we’re not.”
“Yes. Well. You’re probably right.”
What was she right about? wondered Doreen. That Coral was late? Or that we should start?
Jean lifted her glass. “Yes, cheers! And thank you for this.” She touched Doreen’s glass and then sipped.
“Not bad,” said Doreen.
“Gorgeous. Must have cost a fortune.”
“It’s my one and only treat.” Doreen laughed and wondered if there was some way she could put this trip down to her work. She’d look into that on her return. It’d be worth it. She could say she was doing a study of street kids in London and Italy. Ha! As if the board of directors would believe her. Besides they’d want to know why she hadn’t made an application before departing.
A polite clearing of a throat behind Doreen cut her musings short. She turned. Behind stood Coral.
Glory, glory, hallelujah. And the light shone around about.
“Good Lord!” breathed Doreen under her breath, but not so quiet that Jean hadn’t heard.
Jean said, “Bonjour, Madame.”
Doreen removed herself once again from the stool and hugged Coral. Then pulling back, said, “You look…” a hesitation, “…ravishing.” Adding, “You’ll have to take me as I am. Clothes bore me.”
“No! No!” said Coral making all sorts of gestures with her hands and fingers. “Of course you must wear what you feel comfortable in and you too Jean.”
Jean patted the stool next to her in welcome. “Come and have a taste of this.”
“Oh. You’ve ordered already.”
“It’s Doreen’s treat. And it is divine,” smiled Jean.
“Good,” said Coral, and with a pert expression she swung onto the stool and crossed her legs beneath her blue dress. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Here’s to the three of us,” said Doreen.
The edges of the fine fluted glasses met with a gentle ring.
“And Ramon,” said Jean.
“Yes. And Castello del Mare,” finished off Coral.
Jean helped herself to a handful of nuts, and then pushed the bowl towards Coral. “Help yourself. They’re free.” Then hurriedly changed the last bit to, “I mean they’re complimentary.”
Coral shook her head. “Not for me. I don’t want to spoil the dinner.”
What’s wrong with the woman? wondered Doreen. Why couldn’t Coral relax? A few nuts before a meal wasn’t going to kill her. It was as if she was scared to let go in case cracks appeared and when that happened then she’d splinter and shatter and we would see what she was really like. Ten more days of this. God help us! Doreen ran her finger around the lip of the glass and then licked it.
Coral broke the silence. “Our appointment is at 10.30 with Marcus and Berry.”
“What’s it for exactly?” asked Jean. “Besides signing papers.”
With an impatient shrug Doreen, said, “To explain things to us. Like five-year-olds, I suppose.”