The Villa Read online

  ‘It was like this …’ he began.

  According to Giovanni, Edward Westerman came to Sicily in 1935, a mere youth with an inheritance (more money than was good for him, no?) and a desire to live in the sun.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Tess.

  ‘Villa Sirena was very grand when it was first designed and built,’ Giovanni said. ‘Using local stone and marble and a local workforce too. Now though … ’ He shrugged. ‘It is moltu malandata, no?’

  ‘Moltu …? ’ Tess spooned up more tomato sauce. It contained more than a hint of chilli and she was reminded once again of her mother. She was beginning to understand much more about the Sicilian relationship to food.

  ‘How do you say? Run down?’

  ‘Shabby chic?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Giovanni seemed to be watching her carefully – or was that her imagination? ‘It is a place with many dark corners,’ he said, in a seemingly casual tone, ‘places where things can hide.’

  ‘Things?’

  He shook his head as if he had said too much, but Tess suspected he had been testing the waters; trying to find out how much she knew. Secrets, secrets. What was the matter with them all, she wondered.

  Giovanni glanced suspiciously around the restaurant. ‘Someone is always listening,’ he said, ‘in Sicily.’

  Right–o … And Tess had thought they were just a few ordinary couples and families out to lunch.

  Her mind drifted to Ginny. She had called her before they left the villa, but it was obvious that Ginny couldn’t wait to get off the phone. ‘I’m fine, Mum. Honestly,’ she had said. ‘You’ve only been gone a day. Chill.’ But it was the first time that Tess and her daughter had ever been so far apart geographically. And it felt strange.

  ‘As for the Englishman, Edward Westerman,’ Giovanni was saying, ‘it was not only the sun that he craved.’

  ‘Oh?’ Tess forked up the last of her spaghetti and mussels.

  ‘He had to leave England.’ He made a gesture. ‘He was, you know …? ’

  No, actually. ‘What?’

  ‘He had parties.’ Giovanni raised an eyebrow. ‘Of a certain kind.’

  Tess was confused. ‘He was a poet, wasn’t he?’ She pushed her plate aside.

  ‘But yes. He surrounded himself with artists, writers, people whose minds were broad. People who would not object to … you know …? ’ Another raised eyebrow.

  Tess got it. ‘He was gay?’ she said. ‘Homosexual?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Giovanni too, finished the last of his pasta and wiped his lips delicately with his napkin. His expression betrayed that while he might not be homophobic, he certainly did not approve. ‘In England it was illegal, no? You had your Oscar Wilde, I think?’

  Tess laughed. ‘We did, yes.’ She sipped her wine – a delicious faintly honeyed affair from Sicily itself.

  ‘Sincero,’ Giovanni told her. ‘Pure grape with no chemicals and so no hangover. Simple.’

  ‘Great.’ Tess accepted another glass. ‘But wasn’t homosexuality illegal in Sicily too?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah.’ Giovanni put his fork on the plate with more force than was necessary. Tomato sauce flew up to decorate the ochre-stippled wall. ‘You would think so. I would think so.’ He sighed. ‘In Sicily we close our eyes to English eccentrics.’ He closed his eyes as if to demonstrate. But retained a pained expression, she noted.

  Eccentrics, Tess thought. From the Latin ex centro. Away from the centre, resistant to the centralising process that made everyone the same. It wasn’t easy to be eccentric, she concluded. To be brave enough. And she rather thought that she would have liked Edward Westerman.

  ‘They have money, they build a grand casa, they give the work to our men and women. Why do we care what they do in their bedrooms, hmm?’

  Tess blinked. He didn’t sound convinced. But she was glad her own family had been more broad-minded. They had clearly shared a bond with Edward Westerman that went well beyond employer and employee loyalty. And he had left Tess his beautiful villa …

  Outside, the sun was still streaming on to the terrace. Why on earth did Italians so often choose to have lunch indoors? A couple were strolling along the promenade hand in hand. They stopped, as if of one mind, watching the boats moored in the harbour, looking out to sea. He spoke, pointed towards the horizon. She looked, shielded her eyes, nodded, laughed. They kissed. Tess looked away. It was too soon. Too raw.

  Giovanni took a deep draught of his wine. ‘Sicily was very poor in those days,’ he said. ‘There was much hunger. Much discontent.’

  Tess nodded. She could see how it had been. She tried to imagine her mother a young girl when Edward Westerman had built his 1930s house with its Deco sweeping curves, its pink rendering and stucco decoration. He must have seemed an exotic creature indeed to the young Sicilian girl.

  ‘And your great-aunt and my mother were close friends,’ Tess said.

  Giovanni nodded. He indicated the dessert menu, but she shook her head, only accepting coffee. In Sicily, she reckoned, she would have to pace herself. If the two women had been that close, then Santina must know why her mother had left Sicily when she was so young. Why she had broken off almost all contact with her family. Why she had refused to talk about it and never returned here.

  Tess scrutinised Giovanni. Did he know? And more to the point, would he tell her the truth? She doubted it. ‘Perhaps I could talk to your Aunt Santina sometime?’ she suggested. ‘I’d love to know what my mother was like – as a girl, I mean.’

  He frowned. ‘She speaks no English,’ he said. ‘Many of that generation speak no English. Why would they?’

  ‘You could translate.’

  He seemed to consider this. Then his brow cleared. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘You can tell us everything. You can trust us.’

  Tess wasn’t sure what she was supposed to be telling them – she’d rather assumed it was the other way around – so she tried another subject. ‘And the man who makes the mosaics?’ she said. ‘He is not a friend?’

  ‘Amato.’ He almost spat. ‘Him you cannot trust. He is not a friend to your family or to mine, of that you may be sure.’

  Their coffee arrived and Tess added milk. ‘Why not?’ she asked. Feelings seemed to rise strong in Sicily. Either Sicilians were just naturally over-dramatic or there was an awful lot of inter-family warfare and grudge-bearing going on.

  Giovanni leaned forwards and lowered his voice. ‘There was a long-term dispute and debt,’ he said. ‘And later, a theft. A valuable item. A great loss.’

  Tess raised her eyebrows in enquiry. Didn’t they have courts of law in Sicily?

  ‘The debt was to my family.’ Giovanni seemed to sit up straighter in his chair. ‘It was a matter of honour. But the theft …’

  ‘Yes?’ The more information she could get out of him, the better, Tess decided. All this theft and debt stuff might have nothing to do with why her mother left Sicily, but it was useful background. And anyway, she was intrigued to find out more about the unfriendly Mosaic-man in the baglio.

  ‘The theft was from your grandfather,’ he said. ‘Something that did not even belong to him. Something …’ He tailed off.

  ‘Something …?’ The plot thickens … She wondered what her grandfather had been like. Perhaps Santina would be able to throw some light on the subject.

  ‘Alberto Amato was your grandfather’s closest friend,’ Giovanni said. ‘The theft was a betrayal.’ His eyes darkened. ‘A betrayal of the worst kind.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Ginny was getting the house ready for The Party. She fastened up her hair with a clip-comb, tied an apron round her waist, swung assorted cloths over her shoulder and grabbed the cleaning fluid. Mission …

  Her mother’s bedroom, she decided, would be off-limits (one vodka and cranberry juice stain and she’d be dead) and used for storing Fragile Objects. Like framed photographs … She gathered these up, distracted by one of herself aged five, mid pony ride, wind in her hair, her expressio
n a frozen portrait of fear and delight. Ginny could remember that day, could float down those mental staircases in seconds; smell again that sweet, horsey, hay scent; hear the creature whinny and snort; feel the sea breeze slating her face and the anxiety bubbling in her tummy as the pony broke into a slow trot. And her mother – grinning and waving the camera in triumph. ‘Hey, Ginny. Look at you!’

  Ginny smiled at the memory. When she got off, all she’d wanted was to get straight back on again.

  She picked up the only photo of her parents. Her parents – it seemed weird even to think the words, because he wasn’t, was he, a parent? You couldn’t be a parent if you’d never been there.

  She, Ginny’s mother, was beautiful, caught like that, off guard. Tall and slender with long, curly blondy-brown hair and a wide smile. Ginny traced it with her fingertip. She supposed she still was – attractive, that was – men still looked at her, she still got noticed and she had great legs. But back then … Their fingers were interlaced, she was leaning towards Ginny’s father and gazing at him with a kind of – Oh my God, you’re hopeless but I love you, sort of look.

  He was laughing. Tall, gangly and carefree, just a boy. Her biological father. That had the right kind of distance to it. Ginny frowned. And he’d kept his distance all right. He’d never been in touch – not once.

  If Mum knew what was happening here tonight, she’d go kerazy … Ginny felt the Ball vibrate as it gathered a powdering of guilt. She’d already called and sent two texts from Sicily ‘just to check you’re OK’. Lolloping lemurs, what was she on …? Fact was, her mother knew nothing about her, nothing about her life. Why would she? She was her mother, wasn’t she?

  Ginny ducked out of the room and grabbed her iPod from her own room next door. That would sort it. ‘Henrietta’. The Fratellis at full volume. Her mother, she reminded herself, would never know.

  She cleared the living room of all potential breakages with ‘Chelsea Dagger’ in full swing. She heaved the sofa into Jack’s room – a chill-out room for the party – and plugged the iPod into her mother’s music system. ‘Got Ma Nuts from a Hippy’ cascaded into the room. She tried out a few thrusts and twirls. Scooped up the rug. Fabulous flamingos … The wooden floor was perfect for dancing.

  A text came through on her phone. She pulled it out of her jeans pocket. It was from Becca. Wot U doin 4 food? Ginny texted back. Crisps + popcorn.

  In the kitchen, she cleared the surfaces and organised the drinks. There was wine (from her mother’s stash; she probably wouldn’t even notice), gin (bought by Pops for Christmas day two years ago, practically untouched), Coke and cranberry juice (Ginny’s contribution). People would bring bottles. No problem.

  She put the front door on the latch and went outside. Lisa was in her tiny front garden, weeding, the two girls playing bat ’n’ ball. They shrieked when they saw her. ‘Ginnyeee! Come and play, Ginnyeee!’

  ‘I can’t.’ Ginny pulled a sorry face. ‘I’m cleaning the house.’

  ‘Really?’ Lisa sat back on her heels. ‘Good girl. Your mum’ll be pleased.’

  Ginny smiled modestly, hooked her fingers into the waistband of her jeans.

  ‘I hope you’re taking note, girls!’ Lisa called out to her two. ‘This is what I expect of you in a few years’ time … ’

  ‘Did Mum tell you I’m having a few friends over tonight?’ Ginny asked casually.

  ‘Er … ’ Lisa frowned. ‘No, I don’t think she did.’

  ‘We’ll try not to disturb you.’ Ginny crossed her fingers behind her back.

  Lisa smiled magnanimously and waved her gardening fork in the air. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ll just turn up the telly. You have a good time.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa.’ If things got too raucous, Ginny thought, she could always apologise tomorrow. And with a bit of luck Lisa would have forgiven and forgotten by the time Mum got home. Mum. Ginny shivered at the thought. But she couldn’t back out now – she’d already invited him.

  Before going back inside the house, she snuck round to the side passageway and pulled a packet of cigs from the pocket of her long, grey cardigan. She didn’t smoke much – usually just when she was out clubbing – and at home when Mum wasn’t around. She inhaled deeply. Would he come to the party? She’d texted him and told him to bring a few mates. He’d texted back that he might just do that. All she could do now was wait. And Ginny wasn’t good at waiting.

  Back inside and armed with black binliners, Ginny inspected her own room. She closed her eyes and imagined Ben moving in close, felt his breath warm and sweet on her face, felt his lips searching for hers, felt them fall together on to the bed … Suffering slugs, she was sweating at the thought. If he came in here … What would he think? It was a girl’s room – full of sweet and cute, pretty and nice. Which was not the impression she wanted to give. No way, José.

  She opened the first bag. In went all her old make-up – eyeshadows and lip glosses, ancient nail varnish and glitter dust – into the black hole. Magazines, all the clothes she no longer wore. She was feeling GOOD … She began to work more quickly; faster and faster, sweeping through drawers of ancient socks and underwear, pulling dresses from hangers. Books from her childhood (Lion in the Meadow, Winnie the Pooh) and soft toys (though White Teddy and Bill the baby owl leapt into the wardrobe for safety). Ginny couldn’t stop now. A zoo of animal ornaments, anything that said CHILD not woman. Fluffy penguin slippers, a poster of a giraffe, a Miffy calendar. A pen that looked like a peacock, a money box that looked like a grizzly bear, a blanket patterned with zebras. (What was it with her and animals?) Out. Out. Out. The Ball shuddered and rolled.

  She put The Fratellis back on. ‘Creepin up the Backstairs’. The music was inside her head and her arms were aching. This was it. Exorcism. She could feel it cleansing every pore. But …

  Would the Ball ever disappear? Would this make the Ball disappear?

  By the computer was a whole stack of college work. She’d promised her mother to do some serious revision this week. Ginny took a deep breath and chucked it in. She didn’t want to go to uni … She definitely DID NOT WANT TO GO … She wanted to go away, yes, but to travel, to see the world, to be free, to be new. She wanted to be older. She wanted not to be a virgin any more. She wanted … Shit.

  She sat down on the bed. Meandering meerkats. She wasn’t sure what she wanted. But she wanted something, that was for sure.

  CHAPTER 13

  A betrayal of the worst kind … Tess dipped a foot in the water. It was warm and inviting, the sea shimmering in the distance, the waves curling in fronds around her toes. A betrayal, a theft and an old family debt, Giovanni had told her. And three Sicilian families involved – the Farros (her mother’s family), the Sciarras (Santina and Giovanni’s clan) and the Amatos (Mosaic-man’s lot). So who had done what to whom? What had been stolen back in the 1940s? Why was it a betrayal, and what – if anything – could it have to do with her mother leaving Sicily?

  Tess waded through the waves, and when the water reached her thighs, she dipped her head, and with one fluid movement slipped into the sea. The initial shock was followed by the moment she loved – when body and liquid merged as if into one. She let out a deep breath. Swimming, diving, just being in the sea felt so good. A way to think – and a way to forget. Closing her eyes against the glare of the late-afternoon sun, she swam with sure strokes into the open sea. Sometimes she wished she could just go on for ever.

  She was only here for a week. In that week – realistically – she had to decide what to do with Villa Sirena and she had to find out what had made her mother leave Sicily – and never come back. Tess turned over, floating on her back for a few moments, letting the current take her. Wouldn’t it be good if life was like that? If you could just drift on the tide in and out of situations – much as David had drifted, both before and after they met. Or would it? Most people eventually put down roots. And perhaps David had by now; Tess had no idea, he’d never contacted her to say – Hey, how’s my
daughter? or Here’s some money to help out. No, he’d never been into responsibilities. It didn’t suit his lifestyle. So really, she should have known.

  She started a slow breaststroke towards the rock islands. Tess did very little drifting – when she wasn’t in the sea. She worked hard; she’d even applied for promotion to supervisor at the water company last week – Janice was retiring and it had been suggested that Tess was her natural successor. It would mean a good pay rise and more leave. So, the job was OK; she got on well with all her colleagues – with the exception of Malcolm. And if sometimes she thought to herself, I always wanted more from life than this, she quashed it immediately and told herself to grow up. She had her health, she had Ginny, Muma and Dad, and she had a decent job. Count your blessings, girl …

  Giovanni had touched on the subject of her plans for the villa over coffee. He had leaned back in his chair like the well-fed tiger that he probably was, lit a cigarette and said, ‘So, Tess, you will sell the villa, yes? You want to sell it as it is perhaps, or you want me to organise builders to sort the damp, to repaint, to fix up the place, before you put it on the market?’ His expression relaxed, but expectant.

  Tess felt blown out with the food and wine and suddenly as if she had been primed for the kill. ‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just arrived, remember.’

  And after all, Giovanni may have provided her breakfast (and lunch), but what connection did he have with Villa Sirena and what did she know about him anyway? He had assured her that her mother’s family and his family had always been close, but she only had his word for that, didn’t she? She couldn’t help feeling that he was just a bit too eager to help out. Or was she – heaven forbid – indulging in some sort of Sicilian Paranoia Syndrome?