At last they retired to a nearby tea room. ‘Did you enjoy it, my dear?’ asked Bea. ‘It’s supposed to be very educational.’
‘Oh yes!’ Flavia assured her. ‘You were so good to bring me.’
Bea’s expression softened. ‘I have grown very fond of you,’ she said. ‘And that is why …’
Flavia felt a sliver of foreboding.
And sure enough Bea took her hand. ‘I am leaving London, my dear,’ she said. ‘I’m going to live with a woman friend of mine. In Dorset.’
‘Dorset?’ Flavia frowned.
‘It’s a small house,’ Bea continued. ‘And I’m terribly sorry, my dear, but—’
‘I can’t come with you,’ Flavia said. ‘You don’t need me.’
Bea lowered her head in acknowledgement. ‘My friend is very
independent,’ she said. ‘She likes to cook and clean for herself.’ She stayed Flavia’s hand and poured the tea with her own.
‘I understand,’ said Flavia. She watched the golden liquid stream into the porcelain cup. But what would she do now? What could she do without this woman who had been so kind to her?
‘Like me, Daphne has never married.’ Bea was still speaking. ‘She wants a lady companion.’ She stirred in milk and a small ration of sugar.
‘Yes, of course.’ Though Flavia did not want to hear any more about Daphne.
‘It will suit me very well,’ Bea said. ‘London, after all, is for the young.’
It was true that after Cetaria, London was crowded, noisy and frightening. But Flavia had grown accustomed to it. And now she would have to get a real job – it had only ever been a question of time.
‘However,’ Bea said, taking a delicate sip of her tea. ‘I have a proposal for you, my dear.’
The proposal turned out to be that Bea would put up a sum of money for a business. ‘I will have a reasonable sum to invest now that I’m moving out of London,’ she said. ‘And I rather like the idea of investing in you, my dear.’ They would purchase, she suggested, a cafe or a small restaurant in a place of Flavia’s choosing, and Bea would become what was called a sleeping partner. Flavia would be a partner too – a working partner – and as such would be manageress and get a share of the profits. And she could live in.
‘We would need more staff though,’ Bea said, pouring more tea.
Flavia stared at her. She could hardly believe what was happening.
First the Dome of Discovery and now this. It was an extraordinary day indeed.
‘Perhaps even another partner,’ Bea said. ‘A man?’
Flavia realised at once from the glint in her eye that she’d been talking to a certain someone.
‘Do you imagine that he’d be interested?’ Bea asked, as if she didn’t already know.
‘I do,’ Flavia said.
And he was. After initial discussions, they decided to look for somewhere in Dorset – so that Bea could keep an eye on her investment and so that he wasn’t too far from his mother. ‘But not Devon,’ Flavia had stipulated.
‘Not Devon,’ the others agreed.
It had taken more than a year to move and set up, but in March 1953 they finally opened the cafe in Pridehaven. Flavia was cook, he was front of house and a young waitress helped wait at table.
To start off with they served English food peppered with a few Italian dishes, then gradually introduced more Sicilian specialities. People tried Flavia’s pasta and pizza and they came back for more. Flavia got more adventurous and she found good suppliers of vegetables, meat and fish. And so the cafe gradually grew its own identity, which had evolved over time. The Azzurro was born.
Right from the start, Flavia found it easy to work with Lenny. He took a room in Pridehaven but he was always at the Azzurro and willing to work just as hard as she did. That was hard.
Every Sunday they closed the cafe and took the day off, and that
was when they went out – to the pictures, sometimes to a dance or even out for a meal. On the day of the Queen’s coronation they organised a street party, and when the day turned out cold and wet (‘As you would expect of England in June,’ Flavia muttered to Lenny) they opened their doors to the entire street and celebrated the Sicilian way with a spread fit for the Queen herself.
They seemed to move so seamlessly from being friends to being a couple, that, thinking about it now, Flavia couldn’t remember exactly when or how it had happened. He was younger than her, yes, but he possessed a quiet inner strength that calmed her.
And then on the first anniversary of the Azzurro’s opening, as they toasted each other with a glass of champagne after they’d finished for the evening (in those days they finished at eight, but later stayed open till midnight sometimes) Lenny literally dropped down on to one knee.
‘I know I’m not the one you’d have chosen,’ he said, looking up at her with those blue-violet eyes of his, ‘but I can tell you, Flavia, my darling, you’re the one for me.’
It was the only time he had ever referred to Peter, even by implication. She knew that he had seen them outside the tea shop in Exeter and that he probably even knew Peter and his wife as they lived so close to where he had worked. God knows what Lenny had thought that night … She didn’t tell him the whole story though. She didn’t want to relive it. And it was true – he was not the one she would have chosen. Santina alone knew what she felt for Peter – what she would always feel. But Lenny was the man who loved her and who worked with her and who would lay down his life for her.
‘Is this a proposal?’ she asked him, putting her hands on her hips.
‘Yes, Flavia,’ he said solemnly. ‘Will you marry me?’
‘Of course I will, Lenny,’ she said.
She never wrote to Santina again. Her old friend was part of it, of Sicily and the past. Flavia only wanted the future now.
The seasons go by and the seasons cannot lie. In the Sicilian kitchen you use what is available. In spring there are almonds, asparagus and early peaches. In summer there are figs
, melanzane
and courgettes.
To the ancient Romans, the globe artichoke was believed to be an aphrodisiac. Protect by its outer leaves or the heart will wither and perish …
The season was from November till April. At festival time it was possible to go to a restaurant and eat artichoke with every course … The best artichokes were from her village and the countryside nearby. Everyone knew that Palermo wore the Artichoke Crown. Flushed pink and purple, long-stemmed, rough-leaved, their globes small and tender; Flavia remembered them being sold from barrows, piled high.
The dishes range from antipasto to risotto, from
caponata
to
frittedda.
Stewed, braised, roasted, barbequed, fried or grilled. Baby artichokes raw in salads. A light stuffing slipped between their petals. Simple is best
.
There is an art to cooking the artichoke
, Flavia wrote, imagining as always that she was addressing Tess.
Like everything that is good, it requires patience … First, prepare. Cut off the stem; remove only the tough outer leaves, cut away any prickly collar, the stalk and the top. Take a cut lemon … Squeeze …
Of seasons that go by and seasons that cannot lie.
* * *
From her writing room, Flavia heard a shout from the garden.
She made her way outside. Lenny had apparently left his fork and his bucket on the lawn and appeared to have vaulted the dividing wall into Cathy and Jim’s garden. How else could he be running across their garden even now? Flavia’s stomach was churning. Lenny …
Cathy had heard the commotion too and came out of her back door just as Lenny tipped himself over the wall into Edna’s garden. What on earth …? As if he was thirty-something, not seventy-something. He had always kept himself fit with gardening and walking, but this was something else again. Had the man lost his mind?
Tess was walking back to the villa to get changed. She was due to meet up with Giovanni for more discussions about the loan to fund the refurbishment of the villa. She had to get things moving, but did she want to be obligated to Giovanni? If Tonino was to be believed, the Sciarras were not a pleasant family. Apart from Santina of course, who was lovely. And Giovanni? Well, Tess couldn’t make her mind up about Giovanni. And then her mobile rang.
‘Muma?’
‘It’s your father.’ Her mother didn’t mince words.
‘What about him?’ Scenarios fast-forwarded through her brain. Her stomach catapulted to her feet. ‘Is he ill? What’s happened?’
‘He had a fall.’
Oh God! ‘Is he hurt? Is he OK?’ She gripped on to the wall of the
baglio
for support. Her father wasn’t the one she ever worried about. He was always there, stable, keeping the status quo.
‘He went to the hospital. He has some cuts and bruises. And his wrist is broken.’ Tess noticed how shaky her mother’s voice sounded, how vulnerable.
‘Oh, Muma.’ But Tess exhaled in relief. Cuts and bruises
and a broken wrist weren’t life-threatening. ‘Any other damage?’ she asked. She was thinking stroke and heart attack and trying not to.
‘No, darling. I just wanted to let you know.’
But Tess was already making plans. ‘I’ll catch the next available flight. You shouldn’t be on your own. I need to see him. I—’ She hurried up the steps from the
baglio
. She’d pack, get to the airport, go on standby; that would be the best thing.
‘Tess.’ Her mother’s voice grew stern. ‘He’s fine now. Really. He is already back at home. Do you want to speak with him?’
Did she? ‘Of course, yes please, Muma,’ she said. She put her key in the lock. ‘Dad?’
‘I’m all right, sweetheart.’ Thank goodness …
‘What have you been up to then?’ She tried to keep her voice light.
‘Oh, you know. Trying to be a hero.’
Tess smiled. He had always been her hero. She remembered following him round the flat above the Azzurro, while he did whatever DIY job was on the agenda that day.
My little apprentice
, he used to call her. She remembered fetching and carrying in the Azzurro too, doing errands, wiping tables, fetching pastries from the kitchen. He always had time for her. When she had a problem at school she could always tell him, when she was lost, when she didn’t understand … ‘It’ll work itself out, love,’ he would say. ‘You’ll see.’
‘I think you should put away your cape, Dad,’ she said.
‘Don’t you reckon it’s time to slow down a bit?’ She walked through the kitchen, slung her bag over a chair, grabbed some mineral water from the fridge and poured herself a glass.
‘You could be right.’ He chuckled. ‘And I don’t need you to come rushing back, my girl. I’m fine. I’ve got your mother clucking around me like an old hen. Not to mention your daughter.’
‘You should be so lucky.’ But Tess smiled.
‘I’ll pass you back, love. Muma wants to talk to you.’
‘OK. You take care now. Big hug.’ Tess went out on to the terrace. Down below, the sea looked cool and inviting. She wished she could dive in from here …
Her mother came back on and filled her in with more of the details.
‘For God’s sake,’ she said, when her mother came to the end of the story, ‘he’s almost eighty. He’s got to stop doing this sort of stuff. He’s an old man.’ Though it hurt to say it.
‘No need to rub it in,’ said her mother. ‘You know your father – if someone needs rescuing, he will step into the brooch.’
‘Breech,’ said Tess absently. But she was right. ‘So he’s really OK?’
‘How many times? He is really OK.’
‘And Ginny?’
‘Ginny is fine.’
‘And David?’
‘David?’
‘Come on, Muma.’ Tess took another sip of water. ‘What does he want? Do you have any idea? Do you think I should come back to see what’s going on?’
‘He has written to you,’ her mother said. ‘Perhaps you should wait to hear what he has to say.’
‘Written to me?’ That didn’t sound like David. Tess transferred her mobile to the other ear. She got to her feet once more and walked down the terraced garden, past the broken fountain and the hibiscus, listening to her mother’s voice as she talked about David’s reappearance in their lives.
‘Ginny needs to spend time with him,’ her mother was saying. ‘I think it is doing her good. You know, maybe our daughters need their fathers more than we want to believe, Tess, hmm?’
Tess stared out towards the ruin of the cottage her mother’s family had lived in. Just a pile of stones … Thought of the Sicilian girl and her English airman. ‘That’s all very well, Muma,’ she said, when her mother paused. ‘But David chose to leave in the first place, if you remember.’
She had accepted from the start that she was a single parent who’d have to manage alone – or at least without a man. And she’d never asked David for a thing – it would have been pointless since he never had anything. She had always resisted the impulse to bad-mouth him to her daughter and in any case she didn’t have anything against him apart from the fact that he’d run away. But … Turning up now – when she wasn’t around and when things were difficult with Ginny, annoyed her. It was so typical, so careless.
‘I know that,’ her mother said. ‘Only perhaps it was not as easy for David as you thought.’
‘Yeah, well it wasn’t easy for me either.’ Her mother knew that better than anyone. She was the one who was there for Tess after Ginny was born, who helped her through the postnatal tears, the loneliness, the sheer terror of looking after a baby alone. What would Tess have done without her? She went back to the wrought-iron table and took another long swallow of her mineral water. She was still tempted to get on the next available flight – what with her father and David. And now that everything had gone pear-shaped with Tonino … But on the other hand, she should stay and get the building work on the villa underway at least. And she needed to talk to Giovanni.
‘What is the harm in letting David spend time with Ginny?’ her mother asked.
She was right. What harm could David do? He wasn’t unkind and Ginny was his daughter. Ginny was old enough to look after herself, and she did have her grandparents to watch out for her. Added to this, none of her family seemed to want Tess to come home …
A thought occurred to her. ‘Would Ginny come out here do you think, Muma? For a holiday? Would you and Dad come too?’