Love Falls (27 page)

Now, now. Lara craned forward and the crowd hissed and jeered as still L'Aquila didn't start. The longer he waited the more unruly the horses became.

‘Once it took so long to start,' Caroline told her, ‘that the horses had to go inside again to be calmed down.'

‘Once,' she remembered a little later when the crowd was almost spitting with frustration at the sly and wily jockey that rode for L'Aquila, who sat on his horse shooting out glances at the starting line where the horses stamped and snorted in a kind of stew, pausing every so often in perfect order, but always when L'Aquila was facing the wrong way.

‘Once the Palio took so long to start that some of the horses had to be re-shoed.'

‘My God.' Lara covered her mouth to stop hysteria rising.

‘Once . . .' Caroline's eyes were dancing, ‘it got so late that everyone had to go home and come back again the next day!'

Lara imagined she would be there for ever, her nerves singing, her eyes pinned on the tenth horse, but just at that moment L'Aquila swept round and with the other nine horses burst through the rope. It happened so fast Lara couldn't see how anyone had known, but an explosion went off at the exact moment L'Aquila started and the air echoed with the thud of the blast. Everyone leant forward, some palely silent, others shouting, shaking their fists. She tried to pick out Il Nicchio in the mass of colours, but the horses were already on the far side of the square, galloping up the hill, clustered together.

There was no commentary, no explanation, and then they were streaming by again. One pulled out in front, the legs of the jockey so limp and hanging he looked like a child on a seesaw, while yet another reined his horse in so he was running leisurely and alone, behind. Come on, come on. People were standing. But of course it was only the trial, the dress rehearsal, and the jockeys weren't racing their horses fast. No one careered into the dangerous corner at San Martino where the square sloped down, and no one whipped or tripped their enemies.

Lara felt relieved and disappointed all at once. Caroline stood up as the horses passed again. They were streaming round the last lap now, three bunched up together on the slope, and then there was one, a clear head before the others. L'Oca. It was L'Oca. It was the Goose and it was winning. It was going to win. Had won. Geese everywhere waved fistfuls of green scarf and sang their warrior song, but no one was fooled. It was the trial and it didn't matter.

Slowly and carefully Lara and Caroline climbed down on to the earthen track. Lara shivered and when she looked up she saw the sky was unusually dark. Thick clouds bunched and overlapped, and while she stood there wondering at the unfamiliar sight, drops as fat as tears began to fall.

‘I didn't notice it grow colder.' Caroline seemed perplexed, but they both knew the weather could have turned any time in the last three hours and they'd never have known.

With the rain came gusts of cold air that drove in sideways. It flattened the soft material of Caroline's blouse. She clutched her arms across her chest and Lara saw how thin they were without the padding of her carefully cut layers.

‘We'd better go.' Caroline's teeth were chattering, and all around them men, women and children were disappearing into side streets, melting away from the square

Silently they walked uphill. They passed the ice-cream shops and the kiosks, already filling up again, and when they reached the post-office square, they waited while their car was retrieved for them from the underground vault of the building into which it had been stowed.

Caroline sat in the driver's seat for a moment as if she were in a trance. Raindrops had collected in her hair, glittering like pearls. They clung to her porcelain skin and ran like lotion down her neck. She looked as beautiful as a mermaid. Her face and neck and arms, her fingers even, shimmering. But she was shivering, fumbling with the knobs to find the heater switch, letting out a blast of dusty air that blew into their eyes. Lara glanced into the back, hoping to find a shawl or a blanket to offer her, but there was nothing.

‘Right.' Caroline took a deep breath and, holding herself straight, she steered the car for home.

Lara wanted to talk. She wanted to ask a million questions. Why did L'Aquila miss so many opportunities to start the race? Was it allowed? Would he be punished? And did the fact that L'Oca came in first mean anything for the next day? Had Il Nicchio run well? She couldn't remember now where Il Nicchio had finished. She couldn't remember Il Nicchio at all. How do they choose the jockeys? Are they from the
contrade
? And then she remembered her father telling her that the jockeys were mostly from Sardinia. They were famous jockeys, with no particular allegiances. Chosen only for their skill. But once chosen they were guarded night and day. Guarded even as they slept, as were the horses, from any member of another
contrada
who might wish to ensure they didn't win.

‘Caroline.' She turned to her, and although it was dry in the car, and the heating had begun to work, Caroline's face still shimmered with wet. It stood out from her skin, collecting in a haze over her forehead. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Tell me,' Caroline cut in first, ‘did you enjoy the
prova
– the dress rehearsal?'

‘Oh yes.' Lara could hardly find words. ‘Thank you for taking me. I'm so glad we stayed to see this.'

‘It was my pleasure,' Caroline said softly, and she looked at Lara as if she were seeing her for the first time. ‘Don't be too hard on him,' she added.

Lara waited. ‘On who?'

‘On your father. It hasn't been easy . . . He's . . .' She sighed. ‘You must try and understand.'

There was silence. Just the wipers, wiping.

‘I do, I think.' Or did she? ‘I will,' she agreed, and Caroline turned the car on to the rough road.

The porch light was on when they arrived back. And not just for me, Lara thought, but suddenly she felt sad.

Lambert was lying on the sofa, his leg propped up with cushions.

‘It still looks ghastly.' Caroline bent over it, and it was true. Purple and puffy and swollen halfway to the knee.

Lara tried to imagine him hobbling through the narrow streets of Siena. Navigating the steps into the Campo. Hauling himself up into the almost vertical tier of seats. And what if the race took hours to start? What if it took days?

‘How was it?' Lambert was looking up at her.

‘It was amazing. The Goose won.'

‘It was the trial.' Caroline was leaning against the door, defying anyone to mention her pallor. ‘I'm off to bed. I want to be up early . . .' She raised an eyebrow warningly at anyone who might dissuade her. ‘I want to see the last trial. The Provaccia. It's the only race in existence where each jockey is trying his hardest not to win.' She laughed. ‘Goodnight then.' She kept one hand on the wall as if for support. ‘Sleep well.'

‘Goodnight.' They both watched her go, and for a few minutes neither of them spoke.

 

 

Ginny had left out a cold supper. Soup, pale-green in a cool bowl, salad and a plate of salami. Lara made herself a sandwich – salami, it could hardly count as meat, and luxuriating in this rare chance to eat a casual snack rather than a formal three-course meal, she sat beside Lambert with her plate. For a while they listened to the rain.

‘Dad,' she asked him, imagining the race track turned into a sea of mud, ‘does the Palio ever get cancelled?'

‘Well.' Lambert put down his book, and closing his eyes for a moment as if better to draw out the appropriate facts he told her how in 1798, due to a recent earthquake, the July Palio was cancelled. ‘In 1800,' he went on, ‘both the July and August Palio were prohibited by the French Occupation forces, and five years later a Palio was cancelled due to an outbreak of cholera. The August Palio of 1900 was not held because of official mourning for the assassination of Umberto I of Monza, and of course no Palios were held during the two world wars. Usually,' he went on, ‘the Sienese try not to let political or national issues interfere with the Palio, but sometimes it is inevitable. It's not that the Sienese don't care about politics, they just care more about the Palio.'

‘Oh.' Lara was glad she hadn't mentioned her worries about the rain. ‘But Dad,' she said, looking quickly at his leg. ‘Will you be terribly disappointed if you have to miss it?'

‘Not as disappointed as I'll be if we have to miss our train.'

Lara started. Our train? She'd forgotten that they were going home the day after the Palio. The day after tomorrow! ‘But will we actually?' She felt her panic rising. ‘Will you be well enough, I mean?'

‘Even if I have to ride Caroline's race horse all the way to Calais with my leg in plaster and a suitcase on my head.' He smiled as if to help the joke along, but she saw from the set of his jaw how desperate he was to be gone.

 

 

Lara stood on the doorstep and stared out into the night. It was still raining, the drops flashing white in the arc of the porch light, sleeting splintery and black beyond it. Should she run and find Kip, she thought, her heart beating, fear pumping through her body. Should she run along the sexy path, creep up on the house, slide in through the front door, along the stone corridor and into Kip's room? She could slip into his bed, lie against his body, feel the sinews of his legs and arms, the silk skin at the nape of his neck, the warm ridge of his ribs. I'm sorry, she'd whisper. And he would roll towards her and wrap her in his arms. She'd keep her eyes open while they made love, watching his mouth, his eyes, the way his hair fell over his forehead, too busy smiling to think about anything else. To think about Roland. And anyway, she'd forgotten about him. She'd proved she could do it that evening at the trial. For three hours she hadn't thought of him. For three hours he'd been nothing to her. Gone. The nip of his watch chain, the smell of aftershave, the weight of his fingers and his thigh.

‘I am the best,' she spat in imitation of the most ferocious of the
contrade
. ‘You are shit!' and she wished she knew the words in Italian so that she could march across the valley, into the woods and over the hills, beating her chest, shouting and singing. Declaring war. ‘Nothing.' She said it again. ‘Nobody at all.' She threw his name out into the rain. Trampled it into the gravel. Spat at it. A roll of thunder rumbled in the distance. She raised her fist to it. Answering back. So there!

‘Lara?' Lambert was behind her. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Oh. Yes.' Lara felt herself blushing. ‘I was just thinking . . . thinking about how the race would be affected . . . you know, by the rain.' A streak of lightning broke open the sky and she stepped back.

‘You're getting wet.' He put a hand on her arm, and limping forward, he gently closed the front door. ‘I think I'll try and go up tonight,' he said, peering towards the dark staircase. ‘I'm starting to feel rather squalid, living in my bed-sitting room.' And so painfully, slowly, his arm around her shoulder, they shuffled up the stairs. ‘Thank you,' he smiled on the landing outside their rooms, a foreign gentleman of the most unknowable kind.

‘Goodnight,' and she watched him limp forward, supporting himself against walls and doors, his shoulders hunched, his hair greyer, the lines across his forehead deep as an old man's.

‘Goodnight,' she whispered, and she went and sat on her bed. Almost immediately another crack of lightning whitened the room. It made her jump, the shock jolting through her body, forcing unexpected tears into her eyes. She brushed them aside, but instantly there were more. She shook her head bitterly. ‘Fuck off,' she told her sobbing self. It was as if another haughtier, more disapproving self was sitting beside her. ‘Stop it.' But it was too late. She couldn't stop. She sat, not even covering her face, and let her tears pour out. They were hot and slippery, and she gulped as they kept on coming until she began to wonder if they'd ever stop.

She lay down on the bed and pressed her face into the pillow, and still she cried, her sobs rolling through her, filling her mouth and nose, shaking her ribs until her face was boiling and her head was cracking right across the skull. Eventually, half blind, she fumbled her way to the bathroom and splashed water against the lids of her eyes. She looked into the mirror and finally she saw it – she
had
changed. A last cracked sob flew out of her. She bent her head again and splashed until her face, her arms, her neck, her whole body was numb.

By the time she arrived back in her room she felt calm. Hollow. Holy even, as if there was nothing inside her but light. She went to the window and looked out and even the rain was falling less densely. She opened the window and breathed in. The air smelt delicious. The mulch of pine, the lavender and rosemary from Caroline's borders stretching for a drink. She stayed there so long, leaning on the window ledge, that her head began to droop until reluctantly she climbed into her bed and turning her face to the wall she closed her eyes.

 

 

It may have been the doctor's car that woke her. Lara didn't know. But when she looked out it was already there. She rushed across the landing to her father's room. The bed was empty, and filled with alarm she pulled on a cardigan and ran downstairs. Ginny was in the sitting room, watching while the doctor used the phone.