One Hot Summer Read online

  ‘It began when my father was drowned. She saw it happen. After that, she lost touch with this world, but never with him. I believe she is happier so. He is always in the next room, or the garden, or the swimming pool. He is more real than we are.’

  ‘She must have loved him very much. What a tragic loss for her.’

  ‘They were completely wrapped up in each other. I hope some day to find a love like that for myself, but I sometimes fear it happens only once in a hundred years.’

  ‘I hope you may be fortunate, Marco. And that you may keep your love longer than she did.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He scanned the long menu. ‘You will start with asparagus, then grilled chicken with cherries. To follow, an ice. Pistachio?’

  She chuckled. ‘I may choose my own ice?’

  The well-marked eyebrows rose. ‘But of course. I asked what you’d like.’

  ‘Correction—you told me. And you were right.’

  ‘I always am,’ he informed her coolly.

  Over the meal, Marco was a charming companion. It seemed as if he had shed a burden, to become the man he really was. He talked enthusiastically about the island, the village, the harbour, as if he owned the whole place.

  ‘I do, almost,’ he admitted when she told him so. ‘Apart from the few luxury hotels. When my parents came, there was so little, the people were so poor. We encouraged them to plant luxury crops for the growing tourist trade, installed modern processing methods. Our family brought prosperity of a sort, but now the younger ones want more. They cast envious eyes on Capri and Sorrento.’ He made a quick gesture of distaste. ‘They can’t see those places have lost their identity, their old traditional way of life. People become lazy and greedy when they live by exploiting others.’

  ‘Perhaps the traditional way wasn’t a comfortable way, for those who had to live it. Picturesque poverty is great if you’re a painter or a photographer. Not if you’re enduring it.’

  He grimaced. ‘A reformer, eh? I must be careful or we’ll have tourist markets all over Barini, and an American bar installed in the Villa Tramonti.’

  Jan nodded towards the boatboy. ‘He’s twentieth-century, anyway.’

  The boy was stretched flat on his back on the white deck, a transistor set an inch from his ear. Even from the restaurant, they could hear the strains of pop music.

  ‘Dino’s father and grandfather were shepherds, leading their flocks. They played pipes made by their own hands. The ancient Romans would have recognised them. Would even our own grandparents recognise Dino?’

  ‘You’re a traditionalist, Marco,’ she teased. She felt happy and at ease after the unhappy events of the morning, able to laugh with this man who seemed so much more friendly—much younger too—than he had been in Rome.

  It seemed her laughter did not please him. He withdrew into his shell. It was as if a cloud had passed across the sun. ‘You mean I’m old-fashioned,’ he said brusquely. ‘I admit it. I admire the old values and virtues, and see no reason why we should throw them overboard just because a few trendy people say so. Honour and decent ways of living have seen mankind through many centuries, and will again. Truth is not changed by calling it old-fashioned.’

  She looked down into the enormous green ice-cream the pretty waitress now placed before her. ‘You are right, of course, about honour and truth. But surely some things change for the better? People having more to eat, less poverty and better homes. Less work, even. Backbreaking slavery doesn’t necessarily make a man good, does it? And aren’t we more honest about things now, talk about them more openly?’

  ‘You mean if we call immorality by its proper name we are free to practise it? If we chat happily about dishonesty there’s no harm in being dishonest?’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, and you know it,’ she snapped.

  ‘Then what did you mean?’ he pressed her.

  He was her host and she did not wish to air views which might spoil the pleasant atmosphere. ‘Let’s not argue on such a lovely day. I daresay I seem foolish and inexperienced to a man of the world like yourself. You probably disapprove of me in all respects.’

  ‘I probably do,’ he said gravely. ‘First I disapprove of a young unmarried girl careering round the world alone. One of those famous friends of yours could have accompanied you, surely?’

  ‘I didn’t plan to come alone,’ she said quickly. ‘We’d meant it to be so different.’ She had not meant to say as much, and firmly closed her lips on any more disclosures. If Marco disapproved of her travelling alone, still more would he disapprove of the Jan-and-Michael idea. ‘And secondly, you are going to tell me, you disapprove of my accepting your invitation?’

  ‘I do.’

  Goaded beyond her patience, she tossed her head proudly. ‘I don’t find that at all amusing, signore. This expedition need go no farther. If you will tell your man to take my cases back to the ferryboat, I will return at once.’

  ‘To Naples? And from Naples to Rome?’ There was a ripple of amusement in his tone. ‘And where do you propose to find the fares?’

  ‘Since I came at your invitation, to care for your mother, you will pay them. Your old-fashioned ideas of courtesy and fair dealing will compel you to do so, and I shall accept your offer as recompense for my wasted time.’

  ‘Stabbed to the heart!’ He placed his hand over his heart as he spoke. ‘And with my own weapon. Come, I apologise. You are a nurse and I am sure you came to help my mother, and not for any charms of mine. Am I forgiven for a joke in poor taste?’

  She was certain it had not been intended as a joke, but he had offered peace. ‘Of course. We belong to different nations, with different attitudes to life, so let us be tolerant of each other.’

  ‘Agreed. Now Dino seems to be ready, so if you have finished that enormous ice-cream, let us be on our way.’

  The motor-launch, the Drusus, cleaved a white track through the deep blue water. Jan had always loved boats, and was in her element, with the breeze on her face. Now, as Marco Cellini concentrated on handling the fine little craft, she was able to watch him without being noticed. She had found him arrogant, charming, sharp-tongued, kind. A strange mixture. Which was the real man? The face she now studied was a strong one, the fine skin deeply tanned, the chin square, the cheekbones high. She looked with special interest at the mouth, for it is the mouth which betrays the man. Generously wide, yet now the lips were compressed; whether with concentration on his task, or with other thoughts which might, perhaps, have also caused the two sharp frown-lines between the well-marked black eyebrows, she could not tell.

  Not, she decided, a happy face. A young one, yet one accustomed to heavy responsibility. A wealthy businessman, her English friend had said on the telephone. So it might be the cares of wealth or international business which weighed on him now.

  After twenty minutes, Dino touched her arm, smiled and pointed.

  ‘Barini, signorina.’

  Marco glanced over his shoulder. ‘Little more than a lump of volcanic rock, but men have made a home of sorts on it for a few thousand years. The harbour is round the other side.’

  The side they approached was steep, rising straight out of the sea without a beach or rocks at the base. Jan craned her neck to the summit of the crag, where a thin layer of soil and green growth clung precariously. All the way down, it was possible to see the rock formations, the slits and cracks, the caves eaten by the everlasting sea. Once or twice, Dino pointed to where lava must once have flowed, molten rock like treacle and now set hard as granite.

  Jan shuddered. A cruel home, but well defended. Not only a home for shepherds, she guessed, but a lair of pirates well placed for a foray.

  Round on the other side there was a different story. This was the fair face of Barini, with gardens running down the cliffs, and beaches lipped by shallow emerald waters. The tiny harbour built of dressed stone, the tiny lighthouse, were toy-like. A man and some boys sat fishing on the end of the pier, but leapt to their feet shouting and waving as th
e launch came in silently. Dino waved back.

  ‘Wave to them, Jan,’ Marco barked. He was intent on bringing his boat to its mooring, but he had given an order. Obediently, she waved. After all, he was master of this craft and entitled to bark orders.

  The approach to the villa was up a narrow road which ascended in breathtaking hairpin bends to the highest point of the island. They used a beach-buggy painted lemon-yellow and having a pink candy-striped awning. The unlikely little vehicle packed a lot of power, and Marco’s muscular brown hands twisted it this way and that, as deftly as he had handled the boat. And at last, under a white archway, they came to the garden of the Villa Tramonti.

  ‘Home,’ said Marco, smiling at her.

  She smiled in return. ‘It’s always nice to come home?’

  To her dismay, the innocent question wiped the smile from his face. For a brief moment, unutterable sadness looked out of those searching eyes, and touched the strong mouth. Then he brought the smile back and spoke.

  ‘Of course. Don’t you find it so?’ But the voice was the voice of a stranger once more.

  ‘To enter the house, one passed along an arched white corridor; one side was open to the sea, each opening framed with flowers. Geraniums scarlet and pink; cascades of purple bougainvillaeas, and, to Jan’s delight, a riot of colourful homely sweet williams. At the end of the arcade, framed by the brilliance of the distant sea, there was a bronze statue of a seated boy over a kittle fountain which sparkled as it rose and fell into a marble basin encircled by alabaster doves.

  The door was black and heavily carved, set in a white arch within an arch of gold mosaic. A huge white bowl of pink geraniums was set on either side.

  ‘But it is quite, quite beautiful, Marco.’

  ‘Thank you. My father created it, out of an old tumbledown house he bought for the sake of the site. He and my mother made it a life’s work.’

  He led her through a cool dark entrance hall, through glass doors into what seemed to be the main room of the villa. It was large and cool, built after the ancient Roman fashion round an open courtyard with a circular pool and another fountain. Banks of lilies grew round the pool, filling the air with their fragrance.

  The floor was white marble, in which were reflected six pendant crystal chandeliers, and the comfortable-looking chairs and sofas, all upholstered in pale blue. Round the white walls, Jan observed six tall black marble plinths, each supporting a fine marble bust. It surprised her that a room so pure in line, so simple—almost austere—could at the same time look so supremely luxurious.

  She had fallen on her feet. To spend the rest of her holiday in this glorious place was something of which she had not dreamed. She now saw the Rome hotel for what it was—fair enough, for those who wanted a holiday without breaking the bank, and didn’t mind roughing it a bit. But noisy, over-full, gone down in the world since the palmy days of the Edwardian travelling English.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Marco asked, with a rather touching pride.

  ‘Very much.’ She looked around curiously. ‘But why don t you have a view? I’d want huge windows looking over the sea.’

  ‘And you’d find out your mistake. With you, the sun is a rare friend. Here he can be an enemy. The sea is all around us, and we spend much of our time outside, where we get all the light and warmth we can take. Then we have a retreat into shade and coolness.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Another difference in outlook.’

  A tall slim lady came towards them, drifting over the white floor like a ghost. She was dressed entirely in black, her skirt touching the floor and a black lace mantilla on her white hair. A peasant dress, made by a master hand in superb material, Jan guessed.

  ‘Marco! Oh, my dear boy, how lovely to see you. Your father will be delighted. He was saying only this morning how long you’d been away. Is this your dear wife? Bless you, dear. My daughter will be pleased to have a sister.’

  ‘This is Jan Lynton, Mother. She is English. You must speak English to her, dear.’

  ‘That’s charming. I never thought you’d marry an English girl, my son.’

  The Signora’s Italian was so pure, her speech so clear and correct, that Jan had been able to follow the conversation fairly well. It did not embarrass her in the least to be thought Marco’s wife. Hospital life quickly cured one of any nonsense like that. But she thought it had embarrassed the man.

  She whispered quickly, ‘It’s all right, I understand. Please don’t mind on my account.’

  He flashed her a grateful look. ‘But we must make her understand.’ He turned to his mother again. ‘Jan is a guest, Mother: Not my wife.’

  ‘Of course not. I know very well you’re not married. She has come to visit Bianca.’ Then she said to Jan in perfect English, ‘You are most welcome, child. My daughter gets lonely, up on this great rock. Run along and talk to her. You’ll find her in the swimming pool.’

  Marco tensed. ‘Mother, think. Is Bianca here?’

  ‘Where else? This is her home.’

  ‘Excuse me, Jan.’ He raced across the room and out through a porticoed door at the end. In a moment he was back. Catching Jan’s eye, he spread his expressive hands and shrugged, mouthing Not there.

  ‘Bianca is on holiday, Mother,’ he explained carefully. ‘You remember, she has gone to visit Aunt Giulia-Maria in Florence. Jan is to use her rooms, and she’s very tired after her journey. Will you show her where to go?’

  Signora Cellini gave Jan a serene smile and led the way.

  ‘I’ll come too,’ Marco murmured, ‘or who knows where you may be led? You see what I mean? She’s safe and happy here, and needs no nursing or anything like that. It is companionship she lacks, and normally Bianca is with her.’

  ‘Signor Marco, I’ll be truly happy to be with her. I see my Italian will improve, listening to her. This is a perfectly heavenly place and I think I am lucky to be here. Thank you for such a kind thought. Few people would have had the imagination to realise that that sordid little incident would spoil the taste of the rest of my holiday. I’m afraid I haven’t thanked you properly for your thoughtfulness.’

  ‘If you do so, you'll embarrass me. I was at my wits’ end to know where I should find exactly the right person. When I first set eyes on you, it was like a miracle.’

  She frowned, remembering. ‘But that was before my purse was stolen. You ran towards me as if you knew me, then suddenly checked yourself. As a matter of fact, I thought you’d taken me for—for a friend.’ He did not answer for a moment. The route lay across the garden, skirting an oblong swimming pool lined with blue tiles and edged with marble.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said at last. ‘You would think me rude. The fact is, I was worrying away to myself and then suddenly I thought I saw Bianca herself walking towards me. You’re the same height and—shape. Your colouring, too. Now I see you more closely, the resemblance is only slight, but at a distance it was remarkable. So naturally I hurried to meet my sister—till I was near enough to see I’d been mistaken.’

  So—that was it. And I had thought, from the blazing joy on his face, that he’d been running to meet a girl he loved.

  ‘I see. I thought perhaps you’d taken me for your girl-friend. You must be awfully fond of Bianca.’

  ‘We all are,’ he said gravely.

  ‘These are Bianca’s rooms.’ Her hostess turned to Jan, and had not forgotten to speak in English. ‘Please feel at home here. She’ll be back in a minute. Do you play the guitar?’

  Jan smiled. ‘Who doesn’t? I’m not particularly good, but I keep practising.’

  ‘Bianca isn’t very good either. You must practise together. I’ll go and tell my husband you are here.’

  Marco led her farther inside. ‘This is her sitting-room. Please feel free to use anything you find here. I’d be delighted if you’d continue your guitar practice. We’re all so used to it now, the Villa wouldn’t be the same without it. Her bedroom is through there, bathroom and all you’ll need.’

&n
bsp; ‘Thank you. I hope she won’t mind my using all her things. Some girls wouldn’t like to have a stranger doing that.’

  ‘Bianca is the soul of hospitality, I assure you. Now I want you to behave exactly as if this were your home. Ring for a servant if you want anything—anything at all. Perhaps you’d like a spremuta now?’

  ‘What's that?’

  ‘Oranges freshly squeezed into a tall glass, and topped up with ice.’

  ‘I’d adore one.’

  ‘Ring the bell and order. And Jan—there’s one special thing I would like you to do while you are our guest. It’s very simple.’

  ‘Then of course I’ll do it.’

  ‘Wear Bianca’s clothes. Everything is Italian or French and is sure to fit you. She has a hoard of swim suits too.’

  She stared in astonishment. ‘Oh no! I couldn’t do that!’

  ‘You promised. And why not? Don’t pretty girls like dressing up? And you are a remarkably pretty girl, Jan. You’d look marvellous in the sort of things Bianca wears.’

  ‘She may be the soul of hospitality, but you’re a man. You must be crazy to think her sense of hospitality would extend to having me rummage in her wardrobe and dress in her clothes.’

  The cold voice spoke. The must-be-obeyed voice of the master of this house. ‘I know my sister, signorina. Please do as I say.’ He turned and strode away across the garden without another word.

  A young maid arrived, and at the second try Jan made her understand what she wanted. Like her mistress, the girl wore an ankle-length black skirt, made youthful and pretty by the addition of a white lace-edged apron, a full-sleeved white blouse with a narrow black velvet ribbon bow. On her smooth black hair she had a white lace headdress with red ribbons down to her shoulders.

  The girl smiled, nodded, and ran off. Jan continued her thoughtful tour of Bianca’s apartments. What sort of girl was it, who didn’t mind a stranger wearing her clothes?

  A shiver ran down Jan’s spine. Did Bianca really exist? Or was she a figment of the Signora’s imagination—a sort of ghost?