Lucy Gordon: A Family For Keeps

He started the supper. By now the fire was burning merrily, so he fixed a grid over the burning wood, and used this to heat coffee.

'There's some sausages too,' he said. 'I cook them over the flames on forks. And I have rolls here. I have a friend with a restaurant, and he gives me yesterday's bread.'

When they were both settled and eating, she said, 'Why did you take me in? You know nothing about me.'

'I know that you needed help. What else is there to know?'

She understood. He had welcomed her into the fellowship of the dispossessed where nothing had to be told. The past did not exist.

So now she was officially a down-and-out. It was not such a bad thing to be. After the way she'd spent the last few years it might even be a step up.

'Here,' she said, reaching into a bag and bringing out a very small plastic bottle, containing red wine. 'The man next to me on the plane left it behind, so I took it.'

'Would it be indelicate to ask if you obtained the plane ticket in the same way?'

She gave a real smile then.

'Believe it or not, I didn't steal it,' she said. 'If you go to the right airline you can get a ticket from England to Venice for almost nothing. But when you get off the plane-' She shrugged.

'You can find winter prices in the hotels now,' Piero pointed out.

'Even so, I'm not spending a penny that I don't have to,' she said in a voice that was suddenly hard and stubborn. 'But I'll pay my way here,' she added.

'Cheaper than a hotel,' he agreed, waving a sausage.

'And the surroundings are grand. You can tell it's the real thing.'

'Know a bit about palaces, do you?'

'I've worked in a few,' she said cautiously. 'I'm surprised someone hasn't bought this to turn it into a luxury hotel.'

'They keep trying,' Piero said. 'But the owner won't sell. He could be a rich man, but it's been in his family for centuries, and he won't let it go.'

She rose and walked over to the tall window from which came some illumination, even though it was night. She understood why when she looked out and saw that the room overlooked the Grand Canal.

Even in late November, past midnight, this thoroughfare was busy with life. Vaporetti , the passenger boats, still plied their trade along the length of the canal, and lights shone on both banks.

In the room where she stood, beams of dim light coming through the stained glass windows made patterns on the tiled floor. These and the glow from the stove were the only defence against the darkness.

She didn't mind. The gloom of this place pleased her, where bright light would have been a torment.

'Do you live here all the time?' she asked Piero, sitting down and accepting another coffee from his hands.

'Yes, it's a good place. The amenities have been turned off, of course. No heat or lighting. But the pump outside still works, so we have fresh water. Let me show you.'

He led her down to the small stone outhouse where there was the pump and an earth closet.

'We even have a bathroom,' he declared with pride.

'Positively the lap of luxury,' she agreed solemnly.

When they went back inside she was suddenly swept by a weariness that almost knocked her off her feet. Piero looked at her with shrewd, kindly eyes.

'You're almost out of it, aren't you? You sleep on that sofa, and I'll have this one.'

He struck a theatrical attitude.

'Fair lady, do not fear to share a room with me. Be assured that I shall not molest you in your sleep. Or even out of it. That fire died years ago, and even in its better days it was never more than a modest flame.'

Julia could not help smiling at his droll manner.

'I wasn't afraid,' she assured him.

'No, I suppose certain things about me are fairly obvious,' said the gaunt scarecrow before her.

'I didn't mean that. I meant you've been kind and I know I can trust you.'

He gave a sigh.

'How I wish you were wrong!' he said mournfully. 'There are cushions over there, and here are some blankets. Sleep tight.'

She thanked him, curled up on the sofa in a blanket and was asleep in seconds. Piero was about to settle down for the night when a footstep outside alerted him, and a moment later a man entered, making him smile with pleasure.

'Vincenzo,' he said softly. 'It's good to see you again.'

The newcomer, who was in his late thirties with a lean, harsh face, asked, 'Why are we whispering?'

Piero pointed to the sofa, and Vincenzo nodded in understanding.

'Who is she?' he asked.

'She answers to Julia, and she's English. She's one of us.'

Vincenzo nodded, accepting the implication of 'us', and began to unpack two brown paper bags that he'd brought with him.

'A few leftovers from the restaurant,' he explained, bringing out some rolls, a carton of milk, and some slices of meat.

'Doesn't your boss mind you taking these?' Piero asked, claiming them with glee.

'Perks of the job. Besides, I can handle the boss.'

'That's very brave of you,' Piero said with a knowing wink. "They say he's a terrible man.'

'So I've heard. Has anyone bothered you here?'

'Nobody ever does, although the owner is an even more terrible man. But if he tried to throw us out I expect you'd handle him too.'

Vincenzo grinned. 'I'd do my best.'

This was a game they played. Vincenzo was actually ilConte di Montese , the owner of the palazzo where they were standing, and also of the restaurant where he worked. Piero knew this. Vincenzo knew that he knew it, and Piero knew that Vincenzo knew he knew. But it suited them both for it to remain unspoken between them.

On the sofa Julia stirred and muttered. Vincenzo moved a little closer and sat down, watching her.

'How did you find her?' he asked quietly.

'Curled up in a corner of an alley, which is odd because she says she flew here.'

'She took so much trouble to come to Venice, only to collapse in the street?' Vincenzo mused. 'What the devil is driving her?'

'Perhaps she'll tell me the reason later,' Piero said. 'But not if I ask.'

Vincenzo nodded, understanding the code by which Piero and those like him lived. He was used to dropping into his empty home to find various squatters sheltering there.

He knew that a sensible man would have driven them out, but, despite his grim aspect, he lacked the heart. He looked in occasionally to keep an eye on the place, but he'd found that Piero was better than any caretaker, and the building was safe with him. Now his visits were as much to check on the old man's welfare as for any other reason.

Julia stirred again, settling into a position where more of her face was visible.

Moving quietly, Vincenzo dropped to his knees beside her and studied her. He supposed he shouldn't be doing that while she was unknowing and defenceless, but something about her drew him so that he could not turn away.

Her face spoke of mysteries and denied them in the same moment. She wasn't a girl, he thought, probably somewhere in her thirties, marked by grief and with a withdrawn look so intense that it was there even in sleep.

Her mouth was wide, generous, designed to be mobile and expressive. He had known women with lips like that. They laughed easily, talked well, and kissed urgently with warm, sweet breath.

But this woman looked as if she seldom smiled, except as a polite mask. And she had forgotten how to kiss. She had forgotten love and pleasure and happiness. This was a face from which tenderness had been driven by sheer force. Its owner was capable of anything.

But it hadn't always been true. She had started life differently. Traces of vulnerability were still there, al-though perhaps not for long. Something had brought her to the point where life would harden her quickly.

Then a strange feeling came over him, as though the very air had moved, and the ground beneath him had trembled. He blinked, shaking his head, and the feeling vanished. Quickly he moved away.