Lucy Gordon: Farelli's Wife

The big, sprawling house too was the same, yellow ochre in the blazing sun, the dark green shutters pulled closed against the heat, the roof tiles rusty red. And everywhere there were geraniums, the brightly coloured flowers without which no Italian country home seemed complete. Geraniums around the doors, in window boxes, in hanging baskets: red, white, pink, purple, every petal glowing vividly in the brilliant light.

Chickens strutted pompously back and forth in the yard, uttering soft, contented clucks. The Farelli family was wealthy, but the house was that of a prosperous farmer, with homeliness prevailing over luxury. That was its charm.

Did nothing ever change here? There was the long table under the trees with the benches at either side. Above it stood the wooden trellis roof with flowers wreathing in and out and hanging down from it. How many times had she sat beneath those flowers, as if in paradise, listening to the family backchat over a meal? Paradise that might have been hers, that could never have been hers. Paradise lost.

The front door was open and she walked inside. Rosemary had made this place her own, but it still felt familiar. The few new pieces of furniture blended in with the warm red flagstones. The huge fireplace, where the family had warmed themselves by log fires, was unchanged. The old sofa had been re-covered, but was otherwise still the same, the largest one Joanne had ever seen.

The staircase led directly out of the main room. An old woman whom Joanne had never seen before came bustling downstairs, wiping her hands on her apron. She was dressed in black, save for a coloured scarf covering her hair. She stopped very still when she saw Joanne.

‘I’m sorry to come in uninvited,’ Joanne said quickly. ‘I’m not prying. My cousin was Signor Farelli’s wife. Is he here?’

‘He is with the vines on the south slope,’ the woman said slowly. ‘I will send for him.’

‘No need. I know where it is. Grazie.’

In the poor light of the stairs she hadn’t noticed the old woman’s face grow pale at the sight of her. And she went out too quickly to hear her murmur, ‘Maria vergine!’ or see her cross herself.

She remembered the way perfectly. She followed the path to the stream, stepping gingerly across the stones that punctuated the fast-running water. Once she’d pretended to lose her nerve in the middle of those stones so that Franco came back and helped her across, steadying her with his strong hands.

After that the path lay around by the trees until the first slope came into view, covered in vines basking in the hot sun. Here and there she saw men moving along them, checking, testing. They turned to watch her and even at a distance she was aware of a strange frisson passing through them. One man looked at her in alarm and hurried away.

At last she reached the south slope. Here too there were memories everywhere, and she stopped to look around her. This was where she’d walked one evening to find Franco alone, and their brief tête-à-tête had been interrupted by one of his light-o’-loves.

Lost in her reverie, she didn’t at first see the child appear and begin moving towards her, an incredulous expression on his face. Suddenly he began to run. Joanne smiled, recognizing Nico.

But before she could speak he cried, ‘Mama!’ and hurled himself into her arms, hugging her tightly about the neck.

Dismay pervaded her. ‘Nico, I—I’m not—’

‘Mama! Mama!’

She could do nothing but embrace him back. It would have been cruel to refuse, but she was in turmoil. She’d barely thought of her resemblance to Rosemary, and Nico had met her before. But that had been eighteen months ago, an eternity in the life of a young child. And the likeness must have grown more pronounced than ever for him to confuse them.

She should never have come here. It had all been a terrible mistake.

‘Nico.’

The man had approached while she was unaware, and stood watching them. Rosemary looked up and her heart seemed to stop. It was Franco, but not as she had ever seen him.

The light-hearted boy was gone for ever, replaced by this grim-faced man who looked as if he’d survived the fires of hell, and now carried them with him.

He’d filled out, become heavier. Once he’d been lean and rangy. Now there was power in every line of him, from his thickly muscled legs to his heavy shoulders. He wore only a pair of shorts, and the sun glistened off the sweat on his smooth chest. An outdoor life had bronzed him, emphasizing his clear-cut features and black hair.

One thing hadn’t changed and that was the aura of vivid life he carried with him, so that his surroundings paled. But it was belied by the bleakness of his expression.

‘Nico,’ he called harshly. ‘Come here.’

‘Papa,’ the child called, ‘it’s Mama, I—I think—’

‘Come here.’ He didn’t raise his voice, but the child obeyed him at once, going to his side and slipping his hand confidingly into Franco’s big one.

‘Who are you?’ Franco whispered. ‘Who are you that you come to me in answer to—?’ He checked himself with a harsh intake of breath.

‘Franco, don’t you know me?’ she begged. ‘It’s Joanne, Rosemary’s cousin.’

‘Cousin?’ he echoed.

She went closer and his eyes gave her a shock. They seemed to look at her and through her at the same time. Joanne shivered as she realized that he was seeing something that wasn’t there, and shivered again as she guessed what it was.

‘We met, years ago,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m sorry to come on you suddenly—’ She took a step towards him.

‘Stop there,’ he said sharply. ‘Come no closer.’

She stood still, listening to the thunder of her own heartbeat. At last a long sigh escaped him and he said wearily, ‘I’m sorry. You are Joanne, I can see that now.’

‘I shouldn’t have just walked in like this. Shall I leave?’

‘Of course not.’ He seemed to pull himself together with an effort. ‘Forgive my bad manners.’

‘Nico, don’t you remember me?’ Joanne asked, reaching out her arms to the little boy. A light had died in his face, and she could see that he did now recall their first meeting.

He advanced and gave her a tentative smile. ‘I thought you were my mother,’ he said. ‘But you’re not, are you?’

‘No, I’m afraid I’m not,’ she said, taking his hand.

‘You look so like her,’ the little boy said wistfully.

‘Yes,’ Franco said in a strained voice. ‘You do. When my people came running to me crying that my wife had returned from the dead, I thought they were superstitious fools. But now I can’t blame them. You’ve grown more like her with the years.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘No, how should you? You never troubled to visit us, as a cousin should. But now—’ he gazed at her, frowning ‘—after all this time, you return.’

‘Perhaps I should have stayed away.’

‘You are here now.’ He checked his watch. ‘It grows late. We’ll go home and eat.’ He gave her a bleak look. ‘You are welcome.’

Franco’s workers gathered to watch them as they walked. She knew now why she aroused such interest, but still it gave her a strange feeling to hear the murmurs, ‘La padrona viva.’ The mistress lives. Out of the corner of her eye she saw some of them cross themselves.

‘They are superstitious people,’ Franco said. ‘They believe in ghosts.’

They’d reached the stream now and Nico bounded ahead, jumping from stone to stone, his blond hair shining gold in the late afternoon sun. It was the same colour that Rosemary’s had been, as Joanne’s was.

A man called to Franco and he turned aside to talk to him. Nico jumped up and down impatiently. ‘Come on,’ he called to Joanne, holding out a hand for her.