The Mermaid Garden Page 9

  “Well, you’re certainly right about that.”

  “I know Submarine’s got her artist-in-residence.” He grinned wickedly. “Give him a week and he’ll be seducing every woman in Dawcomb. That’ll teach her!”

  “Don’t be unkind, Jake. She’s having a tough time at the moment. Be a little sympathetic.”

  “Sorry. He’s just so obviously a playboy.”

  “I don’t think he’d be coming here for the summer if he was a playboy.”

  “Okay, so not a playboy, a player.”

  “Your idea’s a good one,” said his father decisively. “I propose we begin with a lecture. Let’s think of an author we’d like to invite to speak, and I’ll contact the publisher.” Grey was genuinely excited by the idea. He loved books, and there were many authors he would like to meet. “Well done, Jake. You’re on the right lines.”

  “I want to help, Dad.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.” As his son left the room, he watched him with a sense of gratitude. He wished his daughter could follow her brother’s example and think about someone else for a change.

  Clementine believed herself ill-treated and wronged, when she had so much to be grateful for. Grey knew it was his fault: he had spoiled her. If only she could see beyond herself, she might come to understand a little more about the people who loved her. Not everything was displayed above the surface. He hadn’t left her mother and run off with a temptress, as she believed, but taken the hand that reached out to him in the black pit of despair. So great was his unhappiness that he had decided to walk away from it. That meant leaving his small children—but what good would he have been to them anyway, cowed and broken? Marina had rescued him and breathed life into him again. Of course, Clementine would never know these things unless she asked him for his side of the story. Until that improbable moment all he could do was present his hand and wait patiently for her to take it.

  That night Clementine sat in the Dizzy Mariner with Joe, Sylvia, Freddie, and Sylvia’s dreary friends Stewart and Margaret. Sylvia dominated the conversation, telling funny stories in her strident way, wriggling her breasts in front of Freddie, and leaving no one in any doubt that his hand was high on her thigh beneath the table, and climbing ever higher. Clementine knocked back her wine and made no effort to refuse when Joe filled her glass for the third time.

  She watched the people around her as if through a pane of glass: Sylvia was brash, Freddie drooling, Margaret as dull as a dead mouse. Perhaps she was dead—Clementine couldn’t tell—the woman sat there unblinking, without uttering a word. Were she in London she would be surrounded by like-minded people, but here, in the very depths of obscurity, she might as well have wound up in a farmyard full of animals.

  By dessert Clementine was well and truly sloshed. She had allowed the alcohol to dull her senses. She joined in, telling stories of her own, making everyone laugh more heartily than they had laughed at Sylvia’s, but Sylvia didn’t notice, she was far more interested in Freddie’s hand. As Freddie’s hand reached as high as it was possible to go, Sylvia sprang up and suggested they go out for a cigarette. Clementine did not want to be left with Joe, Stewart, and Margaret so she got up to leave as well, placing a twenty-pound note on the table.

  Once outside, the cool air revived her a little. Joe was not far behind. He handed back the note.

  “Why are you giving me this?” she asked.

  “Dinner is on me.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I want to.”

  Clementine sighed. She didn’t want to feel any more indebted to him than she already did. “Thank you,” she replied grudgingly.

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her mouth. His was nicer than she remembered. “You know you said you weren’t that sort of girl.”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed her again. “Do you think you could be now?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know, Joe …”

  “Come home with me.”

  “I don’t love you, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I really fancy you.”

  “Well, that’s a start. I might never love you, though. I don’t want to break your heart.”

  “Let me worry about my heart.”

  “All right. I’ll come home with you.”

  “You’ll let me do what you thought I did, but didn’t do?”

  She laughed sleepily. “Maybe.”

  Back at Joe’s house they made love. Clementine wasn’t too drunk to enjoy the experience. The earth didn’t move, but it was pleasant enough. She left him asleep and drove home in the early hours, having sobered up enough to make it up the narrow lanes without crashing. The sight of the stable block did not fill her with joy, so she took the path Marina so often trod and walked down to the beach. The sand looked golden in the eerie light, the sea swelling and glittering as far as the eye could see, until the twinkling lights on the water blended with the stars in the sky. She walked up the beach, her feet just missing the waves as they rushed up to catch her.

  The beauty of the night made Clementine melancholy. She wanted to weep at the sight of so many stars. Something pulled on her heart, a gentle tug. She put her hand there. It wasn’t a physical pain, but a feeling deep down that she couldn’t explain.

  She thought of Joe. Perhaps this was as good as it got. Perhaps Sylvia was right and she shouldn’t wait around for Big Love, because there was no such thing, at least not for her. And yet, tonight, her heart felt as if it was opening up and willing something, or somebody, to slip inside. She sat down and let her mind still in the peaceful seclusion of the little bay. Soon, she forgot about Joe as the sea lulled her to sleep.

  7.

  Tuscany, 1966

  Floriana was in love for the first time in her young life. She knew it was love because it lifted her so very high she could almost touch the clouds. She was sure that if she extended her arms she would leave the ground altogether and fly like a bird, right out over the ocean, soaring carelessly on the wind. Oh, if only she could fly, she’d build a nest in one of those umbrella pines in the gardens of La Magdalena and make it her home forever.

  What a day she’d had. She couldn’t wait to tell Costanza. It no longer mattered that her mother had run off with her little brother and left her with her hopeless father, Elio. It no longer mattered that he was most often drunk and that she had to look after him as a grown-up would. It didn’t matter, either, that she was poor, because today she had been given riches beyond her most extravagant dreams. She had sneaked a peek at paradise and now she knew that however precarious her life, one thing was certain: she would marry Dante and live at La Magdalena.

  She skipped all the way up the path that sliced through the meadows, taking pleasure from the crimson poppies that gently swayed to let her pass. The sea was calm and as blue as the sky that dazzled above it. Little crickets chirruped merrily, invisible in the long grasses, and she smiled because they, too, filled her heart with joy. At last she reached the Etruscan town of Herba, where she lived with her father. The familiar sounds rose on the heat: the barking of a dog, the high-pitched squeaking of children playing, the staccato cries of a mother berating her child, the musty smell of ancient walls and fried onions.

  Soon she was hurrying over paving stones, past yellow houses with dark green shutters, wide arches, and red-tiled roofs, towards the center of town. Widows in black dresses sat in doorways like fat crows, sewing, gossiping, or fingering their rosaries, eyes squeezed shut, muttering inaudible prayers. Skinny dogs trotted in shadow along the wall, stopping every now and then to sniff something of interest, lingering outside the butcher’s in the hope of being tossed the odd scrap.

  She took a narrow street that climbed steeply up the hill and hurried beneath row upon row of washing lines. A woman leaned out of the window to hang her dripping petticoat and called to her, but Floriana was too busy to wave back and scampered on until she reached Piazza Laconda, which op
ened in the heart of town like a giant sunflower. There, dominating the square, was God’s own house, the most beautiful building of all, la Chiesa di Santo Spirito.

  She was now quite out of breath and slowed to a hasty walk. The sun bathed the square in a bright golden light, and flocks of pigeons pecked the ground in search of crumbs or washed their dusty feathers in the fountain. A restaurant spilled onto the cobbles, infusing the air with the smell of olive oil and basil. Tourists sat at the little tables beneath stripy parasols, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, while local codgers sat in their waistcoats and caps playing briscola.

  Floriana didn’t stop to talk to anyone on the way, although she was well known in the town on account of her infamous mother, and cherished like a stray dog. She went directly to the church to talk to the only Father who loved her unconditionally and was always there, no matter what. She had to thank Him for her good fortune, because if she didn’t, she feared it might be taken away like her mother.

  She stepped quietly over the shiny stone floor, inhaling the incense that saturated the air and mingled with the sticky smell of melting wax. A few people prayed in the pews, their shadowy figures kneeling in the gloom. Tourists wandered around in T-shirts, muttering to each other as they admired the frescoes and iconography. Gold leaf shone in the candlelight, giving the haloes around the heads of the Virgin, Christ, and the saints an otherworldly glow. Floriana felt at home there because she had been coming for as long as she could remember. Her mother had been very religious, until she had sinned and turned her back on God out of shame. Didn’t she realize that Jesus welcomed the sinner with open arms? Floriana sinned all the time, like spying at La Magdalena, and she was full of pride and vanity, yet she knew God loved her in spite of this, perhaps even because of this, for it was well known that, like His son, He loved sinners best of all. So did Father Ascanio; otherwise, he wouldn’t have a job.

  Floriana padded down the aisle to the table of candles, which stood against the wall to the right of the nave. She lit one every day to pray that her father might find someone to run off with as well, because she was weary of looking after him. So far, God hadn’t listened. She would have thought the Virgin would be more sympathetic, being a mother, but she seemed not to listen, either. Perhaps they didn’t realize that he was utterly useless and a great burden. She’d be better off without him, then she could go and live with her aunt Zita. Aunt Zita was her mother’s sister. She was married to Vincente, and they had five children already, so they could easily accommodate one more. In fact, they’d barely notice another mouth to feed, because she was only small and didn’t eat a lot.

  With that thought in mind she lit her candle to thank God for Dante and La Magdalena. She prayed that he’d wait for her to grow up so that she could marry him. Then she sidled into a pew and knelt on the cushion to pray. She glanced around at the other people in prayer and wished they would all leave now so that God could hear what she had to say. It must be awfully distracting to have so many people talking all at the same time. But they didn’t leave, so she was left with no alternative but to think as loudly and clearly as she could.

  She remained there for a long while, thanking God for every tree, flower, bird, and cricket she had seen that morning. She was sure that if she buttered Him up a little He might be better disposed towards her when she got round to putting in her requests. Finally, she read out her mental list. She did not ask for her mother back, which was usually her most ardent desire, because she felt she couldn’t ask for too much and today she wanted to marry Dante more than she wanted her mother. She hoped her mother would never find out.

  When she had finished, she crossed herself in front of the altar, smiling sympathetically at the statue of Christ on the cross, for the poor man must be so tired of hanging there all the time, and left.

  She found Costanza in the courtyard of her home, reading in the shade on a swing chair. Costanza lived in a big villa on the hillside just outside the town, but it was run-down, like the fortunes of her once illustrious family. Her parents were aristocrats, carrying the titles conte and contessa, which greatly impressed Floriana, whose father was their chauffeur. They had once owned a grand palazzo on Via del Corso in Rome, and a villa by the sea on the fashionable Amalfi coast. But Costanza’s father had suffered big losses that Floriana didn’t understand, and they had come to live in Herba when Costanza was three years old, in the holiday house they had once used only for a few weeks each summer. There they shut themselves in, barely socializing with anyone. But Costanza was lonely and isolated in her hilltop palace, and even her snobby mother could see that she needed the company of children her own age. So the countess finally relented and sent her to the local school when she was six.

  Her friend might have had the grand house and title, but Floriana easily led by virtue of her charisma. Not only was she pretty, with a gamine little face and wide eyes, but she was confident of her appeal and instinctively clever. She had all the best ideas for games and seemed totally fearless when the games got a little dangerous, involving the sea or cliffs.

  Costanza was not so physically blessed, with heavy features and a stout body. She was afraid of heights and of drowning, and admired her friend’s courage, looking on as Floriana showed off in front of all the other children, causing them to catch their breaths as she performed heroic acts for which their mothers would most surely beat them. But she was jealous, too, that Floriana’s life was so carefree. Costanza’s mother made her study, tidy her room, and mind her manners, while Floriana had no one to tell her what to do and did as she pleased. Costanza had felt sorry for her when her mother had run off, but Floriana had thrown her pity right back in her face, puffed out her six-year-old chest, and said, “Who needs a mother anyway?” So Costanza envied her instead; she was too young to see the broken heart behind the little girl’s defenses.

  “Ciao,” said Floriana cheerfully, stepping into the courtyard where lemon trees grew in pots and tomatoes flourished on the south-facing wall.

  Costanza looked up from her book. “Ciao.” Then, registering her smug expression, she asked, “What have you been up to?”

  “I’m in love,” Floriana replied carelessly.

  “Who with?”

  Floriana sat down next to her and pushed off with her toes to make the chair swing. “He’s called Dante.”

  “You mean, Dante Bonfanti, who lives at Villa La Magdalena?”

  “You know him?” Floriana was a little put out.

  “Sort of.” Costanza screwed up her nose. The truth was she had never met him, but her parents knew his parents, so that almost counted.

  “He’s just showed me around the gardens. Oh, Costanza, they’re the most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen. They truly are.”

  “They would be. They have an army of gardeners. Mamma used to have a big garden in Rome.”

  “You have a lovely garden here.”

  “But it’s not well looked after. We no longer have the money for such extravagances.” She didn’t quite know what that meant, but she heard her mother say it all the time, usually accompanied by a sorry sigh.

  “The gardens there are very well looked after.”

  “You know they’re one of the richest families in Italy?”

  “Really?”

  “Dante’s father, Beppe, is one of the most powerful men in the country.”

  Floriana did not know how to respond to that, so she remained silent, waiting for Costanza to continue.

  Costanza relished knowing more about him than her friend. “Dante is the eldest son,” she continued. Then she allowed her envy to get the better of her and added maliciously, “He’s like a prince, so he will have to marry a princess. There’s no point you falling in love with him.”

  Her words were a dagger to Floriana’s heart. She put her hand there and pressed hard to stop it bleeding. Then she remembered God and the candle she had lit, and a small spark of hope ignited to relieve the pain.

  “I’m not expecting
to marry him,” she said breezily, adding a little chuckle to sound more convincing. She was a master at dissembling. “He says I can come as often as I like. His parents are away traveling.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Nearly eighteen.”

  “So what does he want with a little girl of ten?”

  “Nearly eleven and he doesn’t want anything. I think he felt sorry for me.”

  “Like everyone else. They don’t know how strong you are.” Costanza nudged her playfully, suddenly feeling bad for having squashed her enthusiasm. “Can I come next time? I’d love to see the gardens.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow. I showed him the broken wall I climb when I spy.”

  “Can I spy, too?”

  “Sure, if you can keep quiet.”

  “I can keep quiet.”

  “And not hiss at me when I jump down and snoop around?”

  “I can, honestly.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have to snoop. He says he’ll look out for me.”

  “Shouldn’t we just ring the bell?”

  “Much more fun stealing in over the wall.”

  “If I say my father’s name, they’ll let us in.”

  “We don’t need to do that. We’ll climb over the wall and find Dante. We’ll surprise him. He won’t mind; he’s my friend now. We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

  So, that settled, Floriana grabbed some fruit from the kitchen and made her way back down the hill into town. The sun was now slowly sinking in the western sky, turning the light a melancholy amber color, throwing long shadows across her path for her to jump over. She chewed on a juicy fig and thought of Dante. It didn’t matter that he was supposed to marry a princess, because love was more important than titles. After all, Cinderella married a prince, and she was just a scullery maid. Floriana loved La Magdalena more than anything else. She belonged there, in that little mermaid garden, reading a book on the bench by the fountain. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t read very well, because she’d learn. She was clever: she could learn anything.