been through a mangle. And still it felt not enough. She had been mistaken; she could see that now. But there was time to redress the balance, she felt. She could give her daughter something more from her homeland. And then she realised what it must be.
CHAPTER 8
Tess collected the hire car from Palermo airport and drove to Cetaria, all thoughts of Robin boxed at the back of her mind. Right now she was keeping the lid on. She didn’t need him. She wouldn’t let herself. And Sicily, she could see, would be the ideal distraction. It was hard to tear her gaze from the green-grey mountain slopes, the rusty earth studded by pine and birch trees on one side, and the glimpses of a late sun shimmering over an azure sea to the other. But she had to concentrate on the road. This was Sicily, this was a hire car and she must remember to drive on the right.
It was early evening and still light when she saw the village an hour later, a cluster of terraced streets huddled below her beside the sea. The road to Cetaria wound down steeply from a belvedere at the top. She drove past a chapel with an apricot stuccoed facade, and before she could get her bearings the streets had wrapped themselves around her. Tall, shuttered buildings sandwiched the cobbles on either side and narrow stone steps descended to the level below – occasionally opening out into a piazza or a brief flash-view of the sea. It was a maze.
She parked in a side street, got out and stretched. It waswarm, she fancied a stroll and it would be far easier to find the house she was looking for on foot. She’d been told to collect the key from a Signora Santina Sciarra who lived in via Dogali, number fifteen, and who was a friend of the family. Which family, she wondered. Hers? Was this someone who had known her mother?
‘Is the villa very dilapidated?’ she had asked the solicitor dealing with Edward Westerman’s will on the phone before she came here. She was determined to be practical. What had promised to be an adventure with Robin might prove daunting when faced with it alone. But he had assured her it was just old, tired and in need of some TLC. Old and tired, Tess could cope with. Crumbling ceilings and leaking pipes, she could not. She was trying to be strong. But her relationship with Robin had reached a cliff edge. And she wasn’t sure whether or not to jump.
Leaving her bags in the car, she walked to the corner. It was dinnertime. She could smell the fragrances of tomatoes, herbs and roasting meat drifting through open windows, down from balconies and terraces. In the next street, she saw an old woman dressed in black, sweeping her front step, her back bent.
‘
Scusi
,’ Tess said. Was that right?
The woman peered up at her with black, inscrutable eyes. She did not speak.
‘
Sera
. Er …’ That was most of her Italian used up. And besides, Sicilian was a completely different language – one that her mother hadn’t chosen to share with Tess when shewas growing up. ‘Via Dogali?’ She showed the woman the slip of paper she’d written the address on. Sicilians were bound to understand Italian; no doubt most of them spoke it to the tourists who regularly invaded their island.
The woman grabbed the slip of paper from her with brown knobbled fingers, peering and clicking her tongue. She was clutching a thick black shawl around her head, despite the warmth of the evening. She let loose a torrent of Sicilian, in which Tess thought she caught the name Santina.
‘Yes,’ Tess said. ‘Santina.
Sì
.’
The woman placed a bony hand on Tess’s arm and gripped. Hard. She was speaking very fast. Was she asking who Tess was? She thought so.
‘I am Flavia’s daughter,’ she said clearly. ‘Flavia.
Figlia
.’ Was that right?
Another torrent. The woman turned and beckoned. ‘
Sì, sì
,’ she muttered. ‘Come, come.’
She hobbled quickly along the skinny street, her heavy black shoes clomping over the uneven cobbles. Tess scurried behind. How old
CHAPTER 8
Tess collected the hire car from Palermo airport and drove to Cetaria, all thoughts of Robin boxed at the back of her mind. Right now she was keeping the lid on. She didn’t need him. She wouldn’t let herself. And Sicily, she could see, would be the ideal distraction. It was hard to tear her gaze from the green-grey mountain slopes, the rusty earth studded by pine and birch trees on one side, and the glimpses of a late sun shimmering over an azure sea to the other. But she had to concentrate on the road. This was Sicily, this was a hire car and she must remember to drive on the right.
It was early evening and still light when she saw the village an hour later, a cluster of terraced streets huddled below her beside the sea. The road to Cetaria wound down steeply from a belvedere at the top. She drove past a chapel with an apricot stuccoed facade, and before she could get her bearings the streets had wrapped themselves around her. Tall, shuttered buildings sandwiched the cobbles on either side and narrow stone steps descended to the level below – occasionally opening out into a piazza or a brief flash-view of the sea. It was a maze.
She parked in a side street, got out and stretched. It waswarm, she fancied a stroll and it would be far easier to find the house she was looking for on foot. She’d been told to collect the key from a Signora Santina Sciarra who lived in via Dogali, number fifteen, and who was a friend of the family. Which family, she wondered. Hers? Was this someone who had known her mother?
‘Is the villa very dilapidated?’ she had asked the solicitor dealing with Edward Westerman’s will on the phone before she came here. She was determined to be practical. What had promised to be an adventure with Robin might prove daunting when faced with it alone. But he had assured her it was just old, tired and in need of some TLC. Old and tired, Tess could cope with. Crumbling ceilings and leaking pipes, she could not. She was trying to be strong. But her relationship with Robin had reached a cliff edge. And she wasn’t sure whether or not to jump.
Leaving her bags in the car, she walked to the corner. It was dinnertime. She could smell the fragrances of tomatoes, herbs and roasting meat drifting through open windows, down from balconies and terraces. In the next street, she saw an old woman dressed in black, sweeping her front step, her back bent.
‘
Scusi
,’ Tess said. Was that right?
The woman peered up at her with black, inscrutable eyes. She did not speak.
‘
Sera
. Er …’ That was most of her Italian used up. And besides, Sicilian was a completely different language – one that her mother hadn’t chosen to share with Tess when shewas growing up. ‘Via Dogali?’ She showed the woman the slip of paper she’d written the address on. Sicilians were bound to understand Italian; no doubt most of them spoke it to the tourists who regularly invaded their island.
The woman grabbed the slip of paper from her with brown knobbled fingers, peering and clicking her tongue. She was clutching a thick black shawl around her head, despite the warmth of the evening. She let loose a torrent of Sicilian, in which Tess thought she caught the name Santina.
‘Yes,’ Tess said. ‘Santina.
Sì
.’
The woman placed a bony hand on Tess’s arm and gripped. Hard. She was speaking very fast. Was she asking who Tess was? She thought so.
‘I am Flavia’s daughter,’ she said clearly. ‘Flavia.
Figlia
.’ Was that right?
Another torrent. The woman turned and beckoned. ‘
Sì, sì
,’ she muttered. ‘Come, come.’
She hobbled quickly along the skinny street, her heavy black shoes clomping over the uneven cobbles. Tess scurried behind. How old
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