CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JOANNA
June 1973
Paola had clearly been waiting for me. She looked relieved when she opened the front door. “Oh, Signorina Langley, mia cara. There you are. I was worried that something had happened to you. I said to Angelina that you surely would not want to be out alone in the dark. What would you be doing?”
“I am so sorry, Signora,” I said. “I talked to the men who sit in the piazza, and they insisted that I join them for a glass of wine. Then they ordered bruschetta and it would have been rude to refuse. I told them I was eating dinner at your house, but they said you would not eat until very late.”
Paola laughed. “It is no problem, my little one. I was merely concerned for your safety. Not that I think you run the risk of being unsafe in this village, but there are dark alleyways where you can trip and hurt yourself. Now come, sit. The dinner awaits us.”
I followed her down the hall and was ushered into a dining room, this time with a table elegantly set with candles on it. Angelina was already there. The baby slept in its cradle at her feet.
“You see, Mamma, I told you she would be safe,” Angelina said. “She is a girl from London, from a big city. She knows how to take care of herself and watch out for danger.”
I laughed. “I did have to say no when the man called Gianni offered to take me home,” I said. “I thought he was a little too friendly.”
Paola shrugged. “He is all talk, that one. No real harm in him, at least not to the ladies. If you had become amorous, he would have run a mile.”
Angelina laughed, too. “But in his business dealings, well, sometimes he does like to play with fire,” she said.
“We don’t know that,” Paola said. “It is only rumours.”
“It is what they say in the village,” Angelina replied. “They say he is friendly with those who might be Mafiosi. They say he might trade in stolen goods. And then there is the olive press . . .”
“Olive press?” I asked.
Angelina nodded. “The only olive press for the whole community is owned by Cosimo. Did you meet Cosimo?”
“I did. He looked rather . . .” I didn’t have the Italian word for “imposing.”
“He is powerful,” Paola said. “Rich and powerful. A dangerous man to cross. He owns the only olive press, and he lets those he likes or to whom he owes favours get the best times to press their olives. If he does not like you—if you refuse to sell your trees to him, like me—then you find that your time to press olives is at two o’clock in the morning.”
“Does the press run day and night?”
“It does. In the picking season, the sooner the olives are pressed, the better. So each person wants time at Cosimo’s press.”
“So what was Gianni doing that might anger Cosimo?” I asked.
“He still has olive trees, over beyond the old monastery. Cosimo has never liked him, and he always gives Gianni the worst times. Sometimes he makes him wait for days. So Gianni was trying to get together with some of the local farmers to set up a co-op and build their own olive press. I don’t know how far he has come with this idea, but of course Cosimo would be angry if anyone tried to go against him.”
“Gianni is a fool,” Angelina said. “He likes to talk big. But if it came to a showdown with Cosimo, he would run away with his tail between his legs.”
While we talked Paola carried in dishes and placed them in front of us. “Asparagus from the garden,” she said. “It is asparagus season. Such a short time that we make the most of it and eat asparagus at almost every meal.”
She placed a dish of white stalks in front of me, then drizzled them with olive oil and grated Parmesan cheese over them from a big block. I had eaten asparagus before—certainly not often, as it was a delicacy in England—but it had tasted nothing like this. Each mouthful was heavenly, the sharpness of the cheese contrasting with the sweetness of the vegetable.
After we had finished this course, Angelina cleared away the plates and returned carrying a big tureen. When Paola took off the lid, the herby aroma filled the room. She served me a generous portion, much bigger than I would have liked, but it would have been rude to refuse. “Here we are—the pici you and I made this afternoon and the rabbit ragu. Enjoy.”
And I did enjoy. Somehow I seemed to find room to clear my plate. There was just enough of the rabbit in the sauce to flavour it, but it was the herbs and tomatoes that made it so delicious. I resolved to learn about herbs from Paola before I departed, and if ever I had a garden, I’d grow them myself.
After the main course had been cleared, biscotti were put on the table along with small glasses of a rich amber liquid. “This is the Vin Santo I told you about,” Paola said. “The holy wine.”
I looked surprised. “This is really holy wine from the church?”
She laughed. “This is what we call it. No, it doesn’t come from the church now. There are many stories about the name. Some say it was the style of wine from dried grapes favoured for Mass. But others say there was a holy friar who used the leftover wine from the Eucharist to go around and cure the sick. These days it just tastes good for dessert. This is how you eat the biscotti. You dip and then you eat.”
Angelina got up. “I’m going to bed, Mamma. I am tired. The little one kept me up most of last night. Please God she sleeps for a while now.”
Paola gave her a big hug and kisses on both cheeks. Angelina shook my hand, giving me a shy smile. “Tomorrow you must tell me about life in London,” she said, “about the fashions and the music and the movie stars. I want to know everything.”
“All right.” I returned her smile.
She picked up the little cradle and carried it from the room. After she had gone Paola leaned closer to me. “It is good to see her animated again,” she said. “For a while after the baby she showed no interest in anything. She was very ill, you know. They had to take the baby early, or she would have died. I thought I would lose her, my only child. But now, thank God and the Blessed Virgin, she is on the road to recovery.”
She put a hand on my shoulder. “You lost your poor mamma, so you know what it feels like to lose someone you love. After my dear man it would have been more than I could have borne. It’s the very worst thing in the world for a mother to lose her child.”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes and tried to swallow back a sob. The wine had worn at my defences. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to tell somebody and have her arms around me, telling me softly that she understood. But I stopped myself at the last moment. I couldn’t tell even this sweet and kind woman how it felt to have lost my baby.
“Don’t look so sad,” she said, touching my cheek. “All is well. We are tested and we survive, and life will be good again.”
With those comforting words I bid her goodnight and went to bed.
It was only when I was curled up in bed feeling the cool touch of those soft sheets against my cheek that I allowed the tears to come. I might have held them back until now, but I couldn’t any longer. I relived every moment. I remembered my surprise when the doctor told me that I was pregnant. My initial fear was replaced with reassurance. The pregnancy was not planned, and had come sooner than we’d hoped, but Adrian would do the right thing and marry me. I’d put my clerkship with the solicitor on hold, that’s all. But that wasn’t what happened. Adrian had looked scared, then annoyed. “Are you sure? It couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time, could it? We’re both so close to taking our bar exams. Certainly in no position to settle down and start a family.” He paused, a frown spoiling that smoothly handsome face. Then he relaxed again, and gave me a little smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It will be all right. I know someone who can take care of it.”
It took me a while to realise that he wanted me to have an abortion. Shock, horror, revulsion.
“An abortion? Is that what you are suggesting?”
Adrian remained so calm. “He’s a good chap. Knows what he’s doing.”
“Adrian, it’s our baby. How can you be like that?”
“Oh, come on, Joanna. It’s the nineteen seventies. Women have abortions all the time. It’s no big thing anymore.”
“It is for the baby,” I said. “And it would be for me. My father would never forgive me if he found out.”
“Your father has hardly been the most supportive man in the universe, has he?” Adrian demanded. “And hopelessly old-fashioned. He can’t even accept our living together, for God’s sake.”
“All right,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I could never forgive myself. There. I’ve said it. And if you care so little about me . . .”
“Of course I care about you,” Adrian said. “It’s just that I’m not prepared to wreck two lives for the sake of a baby neither of us wants.” He put a hand on my shoulder then. “You’re still in shock. Think about it and I’m sure you’ll come to see that my way is best.”
I did think about it. I told myself that in truth there was no other solution. Adrian would keep pressuring me if I stayed with him. He certainly wouldn’t want to share his flat with an unwanted baby that might ruin his precious reputation. And if I moved out? I had no guarantee my father would take me in, and apart from him I had no one. I think the biggest shock was realising that Adrian, my Adrian, who I had thought was my soulmate, my lover, my best friend, was none of the above. He was someone I could no longer rely on. I told myself he was right. We were in no position to start a family. It was only a bit of tissue at this stage, not a baby. But I simply couldn’t do it.
Strangely enough, it was liberal free spirit Scarlet who was on my side. “Don’t do it if you don’t feel it’s right,” she said. “And don’t stay with that creep Adrian if that’s the way he treats you. You’ve got me. I’ll help you get through it. And I bet your dad will, too, once he gets used to it. Go and see him and tell him. He’ll rant and rave a bit, but then he’ll come around.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You know what a fuss he made when I moved in with Adrian.”
“But it’s his only daughter in trouble. It’s my betting he won’t let you down. He’ll want to look after you.”
I agonised over this. Even if my father forgave me, I could never go and live with him. I imagined Miss Honeywell’s horrified looks and the schoolgirls’ giggles. There didn’t seem to be any way out. I almost relented and went to tell Adrian he was right. Except that I couldn’t.
I wandered aimlessly around London, debating whether to go down to Surrey and see my father or not, trying to come up with some kind of solution . . . And I didn’t see the taxi come speeding around the corner as I stepped out to cross King’s Road in Chelsea. I remember the sensation of flying, then of lying on the pavement with faces staring down at me, and a kind man covering me with his jacket, and an ambulance. Then nothing much for a couple of days. Scarlet came to see me in hospital. She asked if she should telephone my father, but I didn’t want her to. I felt too weak to face him. It wasn’t until a few days later that I learned that among my other injuries—broken ribs, broken collarbone, a severe concussion—I’d had a miscarriage and lost the baby. I should have been relieved, but instead I wept.
Adrian came to see me, too, and sat on the side of my bed, holding my hand awkwardly and muttering pleasantries that it was all for the best, wasn’t it, and I’d be as good as new in no time. Actually, it took quite a while for me to heal. I had dizzy spells. Terrible headaches. It hurt me to breathe. Adrian came to see me daily at first, then less frequently. When I was due to come out of hospital, he came and sat at my bedside and said he thought it would be better if I went home to my father to recuperate. He had something he’d wanted to tell me for some time, but he’d waited until I was strong enough. He had fallen in love with someone else. He was going to get married—to the daughter of the senior partner at his law firm.
And that was that. I collected my things and fled to the only safe haven I could think of: Scarlet’s flat. She, bless her heart, welcomed me with open arms. She let me curl up on her sofa and recover. But I was still too fragile to go back to work. My solicitors were understanding to start with. They realised I’d had a bad accident and wished me well. But lately they’d made it clear that they wouldn’t wait forever.
The physical wounds were healed, but there was still a big, empty void inside me. It felt as if I had been going around like a shadow of my former self, like a hollow person with no clear purpose and frankly not much hope. What I wanted was my mother. I suppose my father had never allowed me to grieve properly when she died. We had to make the best of things and soldier on, to be a credit to the family. That was what I’d been told, and it was only now that I was grieving for her. I wanted someone like Paola to love me.
Eventually I cried myself to sleep. I awoke the next morning to the sounds of the countryside: a rooster crowing, a dawn chorus of birdsong. Sunlight was streaming in through slatted blinds. I got up feeling strangely energised and refreshed, looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and was horrified at the puffy, misshapen face I saw staring back at me. I’d definitely need a shower before I allowed Paola to see me.
I pulled on the shower handle. A small trickle of water came out and then stopped altogether. I thought maybe I’d got the mechanism wrong, and tried turning it in the other direction. Whatever I did I could get no water.
Frustrated now, I put on yesterday’s clothes, brushed my hair, tried to cover my blotchy face with powder, and went to look at the well. Had the pump somehow ceased to function? The well was housed inside a wooden structure, the lid of it held in place with a large stone. I removed the stone, then tried to raise the lid. It was too heavy for one person to lift, or at least for me to do so. I tried several times, then gave up, admitted defeat, and went up to the farmhouse. I wondered if Paola would be awake this early, but as I approached the kitchen, I heard her singing. Through the open window I watched her kneading dough at the table. Such a warm and comforting scene. I tapped on the back door so that she wasn’t startled, then entered. She turned to me, a big, welcoming smile on her face. “Ah, my little one, you are awake with the sun. Did you sleep well last night?”
If she noticed my face was not looking its best, she did not betray the fact.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but the shower. It gives no water. I have turned the handle this way and that way and still no water. I tried to see if there is a fault with the well, but I cannot lift the cover alone.”
She looked puzzled. “That is strange. Maybe there is something wrong with the pump in the well, but it was working perfectly when I tested it a few days ago. Come, we shall see.”
I followed her through the garden to a small shelter behind my little house. “Come, we shall lift the cover together,” she said. I took one side and she the other and we lifted it.
“Now, let us see what is the matter,” she said.
We peered inside. I’m not sure which of us screamed. I heard the sound piercing through my head, and I know my own mouth was open. A man’s body had been jammed into the top of the well.