Maeve Binchy - Evening Class

'No name, just interested to know if everyone was staying here. I said you were going on a tour tomorrow morning in the bus. That's right, yes?'

'That's right,' Aidan said.

'Did she look like a madwoman?' he asked casually.

'Mad, Signor Dunne?'

' Pazza ? Signora explained.

'No, no, not at all pazza .' Signora Buona Sera seemed offended that a madwoman might be assumed to have called at the Hotel Francobollo.

'Well then,' Aidan said.

'Well then,' Signora smiled back at him.

The younger people would have smiled if they had known how much it had meant to them to sit there with their hands in each other's as the stars came out over the Piazza Navona.

The bus tour was to give them the feel of Rome, Signora said, then they could all go back at their leisure to see particular places. Not everyone wanted to spend hours in the Vatican museum.

Signora said that since they served cheese at breakfast people often made themselves a little sandwich to eat later on in the day. And then there would be a big dinner tonight in the restaurant not far from the hotel. Somewhere they could all walk home from. Again, nobody had to come she said. But she knew that everyone would.

There was no mention of the woman who had called to look for them. Signora and Aidan Dunne were too busy discussing the bus route with the driver to give it any thought.

Would there be time to get out and throw a coin into the famous Trevi fountain? Was there room for the bus to park near the Bocca della Verità? The party would enjoy putting their hands into the mouth of the great weatherbeaten face of stone which was meant to bite the fingers off liars. Would he leave them at the top of the Spanish Steps to walk down or at the bottom to walk up? They hadn't time to think of the woman who was looking for them. Whoever she might be.

And when they came back exhausted from the tour everyone had two hours' rest before they assembled for dinner. Signora walked around to the restaurant, leaving Connie asleep in their bedroom. She wanted to check about the menu and to arrange that there would be no grey areas. Only a fixed menu was to be offered.

On the door she saw a notice draped in black crepe CHIUSO: morte in famiglia . Signora fumed with rage. Why couldn't the family member have died at some other time? Why did he or she have to die just as forty-two Irish people were coming to have supper? Now she had less than an hour to find somewhere else. Signora could feel no sympathy for the family tragedy, only fury. And why had they not telephoned the hotel as she had asked them to do if there was any hitch in arrangements?

She walked up and down the streets around Termini. Small hotels, cheap accommodation suitable for the people who got off trains at the huge station. But no jolly restaurant like the one she had planned. Biting her lip she went towards a place with the name Catania. It must be Sicilian. Was this a good omen? Could she throw herself on their mercy and explain that in an hour and a half, forty-two Irish people were expecting a huge inexpensive meal? She could but try.

' Buona sera ,' she said.

The square young man with dark hair looked up. ' Signora ?' he said. Then he looked at her again in disbelief. ' Signora ?' he said again, his face working. ' Non è possibile, Signora ,' he said coming towards her with hands stretched out. It was Alfredo, the eldest son of Mario and Gabriella. She had walked into his restaurant by accident. He kissed her on both cheeks. ' E un miracolo ,' he said, and pulled out a chair.

Signora sat down. She felt a great dizziness come over her she gripped the table in case she fell.

' Stock Ottanto Quattro ,' he said and poured her a great glass of the strong sweet Italian brandy.

Wo grazie …' she held it to her mouth, and she sipped. 'Is this your restaurant, Alfredo?' she asked.

'No, no, Signora, I work here, I work here to make money…'

'But your own hotel. Your mother's hotel. Why do you not work there?'

'My mother is dead, Signora. She died six months ago. Her brothers, my uncles, they try to interfere, to make decisions… they know nothing. There is nothing for us to do. Enrico is there, but he is still a child, my brother in America will not come home. I came here to Rome to learn more.'

'Your mother dead? Poor Gabriella. What happened to her?'

'It was cancer, very, very quick. She went to the doctor only a month after my father was killed.'

'I am so sorry,' Signora said. 'I can't tell you how sorry I am.' And suddenly it was all too much for her. Gabriella to die now instead of years ago, the hot brandy in her throat, no place for dinner tonight, Mario in his grave near Annunziata. She cried and cried while Mario's son stroked her head.

In her bedroom Connie lay on her bed, each foot wrapped in a face cloth wrung through in cold water. Why had she not brought some foot balm with her, or those soft leather walking shoes that were like gloves? She had not wanted to unpack a spongebag full of luxury cosmetics in front of the unworldly Signora, that was probably it. But who would have known that her soft shoes had cost what none of her companions would have been able to earn in three weeks? She should have taken them, she was paying the penalty now. Tomorrow she might slip away to the Via Veneto and buy herself some beautiful Italian shoes as a treat. Nobody would notice, and if they did what the hell? These weren't people obsessed by wealth and differences in standards of living. Not everyone thought about the whole business of wealth. They weren't all like Harry Kane.

How strange to be able to think about him without emotion. He would be out of gaol by the end of the year. She had heard from old Mr. Murphy that he intended to go to England. Some friends would look after him. Would Siobhan Casey go with him? she had enquired, almost as you ask after strangers who have no meaning to you, or characters in a television series. Oh no, hadn't she heard, there had been a definite cooling of relationships there. He had refused to see Miss Casey when she went to visit him in prison. He blamed her for everything that had happened, apparently.

It had given Connie Kane no huge pleasure to hear this. In a way it might have been easier to think of him in a new life with a woman he had been involved with for ever. She wondered had they ever come here together, the two of them, Siobhan and Harry. And had they felt touched by this beautiful city, the way everyone did whether or not they were in love? It was something she would never know now, and it was of no importance really.

She heard a gentle knock at the door. Signora must be back already. But no, it was the small bustling Signora Buona Sera. 'A letter for you,' she said. And she handed her an envelope.

It was written on a plain postcard. It said: 'You could easily die in the Roman traffic and you would not be missed.'

The leaders were counting heads to go to dinner. Everyone was present and correct except for three, Connie and Laddy and Signora. They assumed Connie and Signora were together and they would be there any moment.

But where was Laddy? Aidan had not been in the room they shared, he had been busy getting his notes together for the tour the next day to the Forum and the Colosseum. Perhaps Laddy had fallen asleep. Aidan ran lightly up the stairs but he was not to be found.

At that moment Signora arrived, pale-faced and with the news that the venue had been changed but the price was the same. She had managed to secure a booking at the Catania. She looked stressed and worried. Aidan didn't want to tell her about the disappearances. At that moment Connie arrived down the stairs, full of apologies. She too looked pale and worried. Aidan wondered was it all too much for these women, the heat, the noise, the excitement. But then he realised he was being fanciful. It was his job to find Laddy. He would take the address of the restaurant and join them later. Signora gave him a card; her hand was shaking.