Patricia and Malise (7 page)

Off he set, through arches under the city walls, and off towards the hills. Ruggles bulged with props.

His person, his overall frame, looked pretty good, Malise decided, as he guided the Lagonda through ribbons of village development that had sprung up, helter-skelter, since the war.

Bars, bikes, neon signs. He smiled at quaintness as he read a placard advertising ‘Warm Dogs.' A new and distorted influence from America. A sure party punch line.

He stopped at a
rotisseria
where he bought grilled chicken wings, salami slices and delicacies.

Then, past olives, vines, plane trees, presses, pizzerias, bridges and dirty ditches. Italian ditches were, on the whole, murky and awash with dead rats. He blanked out the war years – apart from remembering that he was a Captain. A popular figure in and among brave people of the resistance.

It was perplexing – trying to translate the instructions of a nine year old. Up, round, under, rutted lanes, broken buildings, ditches, streams, shaky telegraph poles. A small village where he stopped at a shop and asked for the whereabouts of an English family.

When he knew he was near his destination, he left his precious car near by a wrecked barn and walked up a hill, carrying little equipment. It would not do to look as if he planned to settle. Might the husband be there?

The small house was built into a hill and encircled by pine woods. All around were streams, olive trees and birds – in spite, he noted, of the mercilessness of the hunters who were famous for shooting at every bumble bee. Paths were littered with empty cartridges.

She was there, standing on a rough terrace in a pale muslin frock. Hair held back by a pink ribbon. Beside her stood Antonio who squealed in delight and left her side. ‘Sir. Sir. Will you take me for an adventure? Is your car here?'

Malise stood firm and tall, puffing out his rib cage. ‘Hello. I've traced you. What a place!'

Patricia, puzzled, asked how he had found them. They were very isolated. No telephone. No actual address. He answered that Antonio had been accurate in his instructions but that he had, also, asked one or two of the locals for ‘Inglese' in the neighbourhood.

‘You are popular round here. They knew you well at the village shop.'

It was after midday and Patricia asked him to stay and join them for lunch. He planned on staying a good deal longer than a mere lunch hour but said ‘Thank you kindly. Delighted to do so,' as he pulled at his imaginary forelock.

A stone table stood beside the house. It was sheltered from the sun by a vine and on it sat a tray covered in fig leaves and piled high with peaches.

Patricia carried a plateful of rissoles and a tomato salad from the kitchen, only two paces away, and asked Antonio to fill a jug with clear, cold water from a nearby spring.

‘I hope there will be enough' she said ‘I barely eat at all when Andrea is in Pisa – and we hadn't catered for company had we Antonio?'

Malise thought her a little confused and feared that he, too, showed what his stepmother would have called ‘lack of finish.'

He spoke jerkily as he looked to the table and muttered ‘a rissole, fruit and salad. All anyone could wish for.'

It wasn't, of course, all that he wished for but, a rissole, fruit and salad passed muster for the time being.

Antonio returned with spring water and began, at once, to pester and also to diffuse the awkwardness. It wasn't quite the moment to begin on the ‘Capitano' business, so he allowed the boy to continue with cries of ‘Sir. Sir. Did you bring your hammock? I have found two trees where it can go.'

Three kitchen chairs were pulled up to the stone table and, as they ate, the discomfort started to dwindle. Patricia was proud of her rustic haven and pleased to show it off to an Englishman. Her Italian friends found it weird and inconvenient.

Malise provided a rewarding willingness to exclaim on the splendour around them and asked, with keenness, how she had ever come by such an enchanted spot.

He told her that he had planned to drive on to Volterra that day; had research to do there. It had been obvious from Antonio's instructions that they lay, indeed, on the route to that city. The detour he made appeared convincing and Patricia relaxed as he gave way to Antonio's persuasions.

A spindly boy, of an age with Antonio, appeared from the terrace below. A date had been made for the children to spend the rest of the day together. Antonio raced towards the visiting boy and cried ‘A friend of Mamma's,' pointing to Malise, ‘Sir here – has a car – below. A fantastic car. We will make him take us to it.' The visiting boy looked startled and admitted to having wondered at the sight of Ruggles – never guessing that he was to meet the owner.

Patricia melted. This handsome newcomer had captured the heart of her only child. She had reading and painting to do as well as many an odd job to see to around the house. Allow Antonio to be amused and entertained. Let her off the hook. She doted on her son but doted, too, on free time.

Malise, Antonio and the extra boy walked down the track that lay between a ditch and a precipice – to the dilapidated barn beside which the Lagonda was parked.

‘Now boys!' he said, attempting playfulness, ‘If I give you a ride in Ruggles, I shall expect you to call me Capitano.' He spoke in faulty Italian with appeals to Antonio to translate for the visitor.

Before taking a ride, they had to empty the back of the car – the carrying orchestrated by Malise. All objects were stacked in the ruin of a barn on the step of which a toad squatted.

The boys talked feverishly in both languages – the one translating for the other.

‘Capitano. Will you come swimming with us? In the stream. We aren't allowed to unless grown-ups are with us.'

Malise said ‘Yes' to everything as they cleared Ruggles of equipment.

‘First a spin, then a swim.' Malise was near to being in his element although anxiety concerning his desires prevented him from tasting the joys of total delight.

The boys took it in turn to sit in the back. Windows down and waving. They insisted on stopping outside the village shop where there was always an audience on its doorstep. Then they drove up a long and winding track, but the young passengers soon began to tire for there were no people, on that deserted route, to admire them in Ruggles. They urged Malise to return. It was time for a swim. Malise had, he remembered, packed a pair of bathing trunks in among his bulging bags.

Back at the barn where his stuff awaited him, Malise instructed Antonio and his friend – ‘Run up the hill boys. Tell Mamma that you have talked me into setting up a camp in her wood tonight. Tell her that you will all, your friend too of course, be welcome to come and sup with me tonight. To partake of a bosky meal.'

‘By the way,' he asked ‘does your Papa come home today? Just so that I have an idea of how many to provide for.'

‘Papa never comes until Saturdays. He comes only for one or two nights and sometimes only in the day time.'

It was a Monday.

‘Supper for three then. In the wood on the other side of the stream from your house. Beside an old shed.'

Off they scampered, bursting with delight, to take the news to Patricia who painted at the stone table.

Three times Malise walked, each time carrying a heavy load, to the spot he had marked down for his camp – a small stretch of flat terrace beside a collapsing shed.

He worried as he imagined Antonio breaking the news to his mother and hastened to sort out his belongings. He craved the sight of her in her muslin frock and pink bow.

He had just dumped his last load, tent included, onto the grass when the boys reappeared. They were ready to swim and Antonio carried a note from his mother. First letter ever from Patricia. His hand trembled as he read the scrawled lines. ‘Antonio tells me that you are to camp here tonight – and that you have invited us to ‘sup' with you. He was not sure what you meant by ‘sup' but I guess that you are asking us to eat with you this evening? It is kind of you. Luigi, Antonio's friend, can't stop. His mother wants him back. So, the two of us will find your hideaway with no trouble. Early please as I don't like to keep my boy up late. Andrea will not be back today I fear. Sometimes, though, in Antonio's holidays, he can be flexible. Later I shall go down to the Posto Publico to find a message from him. Our only form of communication here. Meanwhile I gather you are going to supervise the boys as they swim. It is extremely kind of you.'

He hid the letter in his sleeping bag. First memento.

Malise shuddered at the likelihood of Andrea's flexibility.

He stood tall, pectorals outstanding, in shallow water as the boys jumped and splashed. It was not deep enough to swim in. There was always a chance that Patricia might, at the very least, come to watch.

He kept up an act of boyish playfulness – just in case. At one moment the children seemed to tire of paddling. Malise climbed out of the water and bade them watch him stand on his head. He told them to count to see if he was still upside down when they got to a hundred. He was. Just, although mauve in colour. But no Patricia to witness the feat. Not without effort, he kept up his pranks until he heard her summon the boys in for tea – as she called their afternoon snack. No more than her voice. No sight of the pink ribbon. The muslin dress. The body beneath it.

Malise threw all his strength into preparation. He spread a length of tarpaulin on top of the stretch of flattened grass and balanced a bread board on a handy plank of wood. Setting out several candles in glass jars, he looked about for suitable places in which to place the quantity of spirales he had brought along with him. These were circles of green repellent material – attached to metal bases – holders, ready to be lit with a match and to smoulder for hour after hour – keeping mosquitoes at a distance. He was pleased to have thought of that, not wishing to itch or to swell on any part of his body. Nor did he wish itching or swelling on any part of Patricia's body.

He had brought, too, plastic mugs, plates, containers and an oil lamp, cushions – even a bread knife. He did not peg the tent for he planned to sleep in his hammock and, also, felt that the erecting of a tent might give his stay the impression of semi-permanence. Tact was required. And skill.

The venue for the ‘sup' was ready and pretty well perfect by the time Patricia and Antonio walked down the path to join him.

‘Hi.' His voice abnormally loud again.

‘I should not really say welcome when this is your home.'

‘Maybe not.' Patricia answered in a near-to-formal manner but Antonio spoke, in a rush and in Italian to his mother. He extolled the wonders of the ‘Capitano' – his car, his head-standing exploits, the many marvels of the man until the boy's mother relaxed and appeared to be at ease. They settled and ate and talked until it darkened and fire flies flicked about. Mosquitos were deterred by the smouldering spirales. Malise served contentedly and with, once again, a great many flourishes. Patricia gave the impression of easing, letting go, enjoying herself. It was good to hear her beauty spot extolled and marvelled at. She began to respond to his queries and described her moment of coming upon the place four years earlier.

They had explored (Andrea, herself and Antonio – then three years old) the area one autumn day. They had looked for blackberries and enjoyed a day away from the city. A sly local fellow had joined them on the hillside, pointed to the collapsing house and offered it for sale. That and a good number of surrounding hectares at a very low price.

Her voice.

Antonio amused himself fiddling with candles and spirales. Patricia lay back on a cushion and said ‘Oh god! That guitarist again.' Music, from a distance and badly played, followed their ears. Patricia went on ‘Poor Andrea. He can't bear that noise; goes half mad when it starts up – but – well. I rather like it. Company perhaps.'

Malise was on the alert. ‘Company? Was she lonely?

When and how was he to suggest that he stayed longer on her land?

Antonio was drowsy and Patricia said that they must be off.

Tomorrow? Was he going on to Volterra in the morning she asked. If so she thanked him for an excellent ‘sup' and for having been so very good to Antonio and his friend. ‘Perhaps, on your way back, you might like to call by. Andrea, if he is with us, would be pleased to see you again. Headway? He gave no firm answer but, when they had gone, cleared up, snuffed candles, packed food in plastic bags and lodged them under stones beside the stream. Waste not want not, as he had been taught at the farm in Hertfordshire.

Patricia was only a few hundred yards from where he hooked his hammock. She was there in her unlit house. He crept near to it and watched the beam of a torch through an upper window as she shone herself to bed.

‘To bed. To bed. To bed' he sang as he rocked, uncontrollably, in his hammock.

He was bitten by mosquitoes and prevented from sleeping by the amateur guitarist – as well as by his own inner torments.

After dropping off for an hour or two he was woken by the call of a late summer cuckoo and a throng of black-caps that flurried in a cluster of tall trees near to sturdy ones onto which he'd hooked his hammock.

Gypsies slunk by carrying bundles of, presumably, Patricia's logs. He was tempted to confront them. Take up cudgels on her behalf. Knight in armour.

It was five thirty in the morning. Malise had no idea what to do next but the conquest of Patricia was the thing that must be achieved. Strategy was required. It was all very well to be male companion and mentor to Antonio in the absence of the boy's father – but what when Andrea returned?

It was not an easy job to extricate himself from the hammock and his skin was lined with the pattern of rope. He washed in the stream and felt that his feet were a long way from his head and that his mouth had gone very dry. All a result of vacillating moments.

Later, and after a long walk of exploration through bracken, brambles, ferns, trees and streams, he sat on the tarpaulin to eat fruit and a stale roll.

Patricia visited him alone. She wore a different dress and a blue bow, rather than the pink one of the day before, held back her shimmering, dark hair.

‘Thank you for our delicious supper.'

‘Pleasure Ma'am.' He sprang up.

‘How was your night in the hammock?'

‘Excellent. Never slept better.'

‘Are you off to Volterra?'

‘I thought. Yes. I'll push off there sometime today.'

He never knew what took place as those short sentences had been exchanged but, at some point, he realised that Patricia asked him to stay put for a while.

For further days.

‘Antonio has begged me to persuade you to stay in your camp for more of his holidays.'

‘Did you need to be begged?'

He feared that he had overstepped the mark. If he overstepped, Patricia side-stepped and gave him her hand.

A whisper of delight passed between them; the message of a magic touch. A flutter, a flush, a fuzziness. Whatever it wasn't – it was an immodest thing.

Patricia, she told him within seconds, had been holding back – had sheltered behind her son and her marriage. She told him that she would return to her house, tell Antonio to help Malise pitch his tent before, in peculiar mood, tripping down to the
Posto
Publico
to hear news of and to send news to her husband, Andrea. The world, for her, moved oddly as though she were being led by an ominous fatality.