The Mermaid Garden (13 page)

That night Clementine sat in the Dizzy Mariner with Joe, Sylvia, Fred-

die, and Sylvia’s dreary friends Stewart and Margaret. Sylvia dominated the conversation, telling funny stories in her strident way, wriggling

her breasts in front of Freddie, and leaving no one in any doubt that

his hand was high on her thigh beneath the table, and climbing ever

higher. Clementine knocked back her wine and made no effort to re-

fuse when Joe filled her glass for the third time.

She watched the people around her as if through a pane of glass:

Sylvia was brash, Freddie drooling, Margaret as dull as a dead mouse.

Perhaps she was dead—Clementine couldn’t tell—the woman sat there

unblinking, without uttering a word. Were she in London she would be

surrounded by like-minded people, but here, in the very depths of ob-

scurity, she might as well have wound up in a farmyard full of animals.

By dessert Clementine was well and truly sloshed. She had allowed

the alcohol to dull her senses. She joined in, telling stories of her own, making everyone laugh more heartily than they had laughed at Sylvia’s, but Sylvia didn’t notice, she was far more interested in Freddie’s hand. As Freddie’s hand reached as high as it was possible to go, Sylvia sprang up and suggested they go out for a cigarette. Clementine did

not want to be left with Joe, Stewart, and Margaret so got up to leave as well, placing a twenty-pound note on the table.

Once outside, the cool air revived her a little. Joe was not far behind.

He handed back the note.

“Why are you giving me this?” she asked.

“Dinner is on me.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I want to.”

Clementine sighed. She didn’t want to feel any more indebted to

him than she already did. “Thank you,” she replied grudgingly.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her mouth. His was nicer

than she remembered. “You know you said you weren’t that sort of girl.”

“Yes.”

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He kissed her again. “Do you think you could be now?”

She laughed. “I don’t know, Joe . . .”

“Come home with me.”

“I don’t love you, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you love me?”

“I really fancy you.”

“Well, that’s a start. I might never love you, though. I don’t want to

break your heart.”

“Let me worry about my heart.”

“All right. I’ll come home with you.”

“You’ll let me do what you thought I did, but didn’t do?”

She laughed sleepily. “Maybe.”

Back at Joe’s house they made love. Clementine wasn’t too drunk to

enjoy the experience. The earth didn’t move, but it was pleasant enough.

She left him asleep and drove home in the early hours, having sobered

up enough to make it up the narrow lanes without crashing. The sight

of the stable block did not fill her with joy, so she took the path Marina so often trod and walked down to the beach. The sand looked golden in

the eerie light, the sea swelling and glittering as far as the eye could see, until the twinkling lights on the water blended with the stars in the sky.

She walked up the beach, her feet just missing the waves as they rushed up to catch her.

The beauty of the night made Clementine melancholy. She wanted

to weep at the sight of so many stars. Something pulled on her heart, a gentle tug. She put her hand there. It wasn’t a physical pain, but a feeling deep down that she couldn’t explain.

She thought of Joe. Perhaps this was as good as it got. Perhaps Sylvia

was right and she shouldn’t wait around for Big Love, because there

was no such thing, at least not for her. And yet, tonight, her heart felt as if it was opening up and willing something, or somebody, to slip inside.

She sat down and let her mind still in the peaceful seclusion of the little bay. Soon, she forgot about Joe as the sea lulled her to sleep.

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7.

Tuscany, 1966

Floriana was in love for the first time in her young life. She knew it

was love because it lifted her so very high she could almost touch the

clouds. She was sure that if she extended her arms she would leave the

ground altogether and fly like a bird, right out over the ocean, soaring carelessly on the wind. Oh, if only she
could
fly, she’d build a nest in one of those umbrella pines in the gardens of La Magdalena and make it

her home forever.

What a day she’d had. She couldn’t wait to tell Costanza. It no lon-

ger mattered that her mother had run off with her little brother and

left her with her hopeless father, Elio. It no longer mattered that he

was most often drunk and that she had to look after him as a grown-up

would. It didn’t matter, either, that she was poor, because today she

had been given riches beyond her most extravagant dreams. She had

sneaked a peek at paradise and now she knew that however precarious

her life, one thing was certain: she would marry Dante and live at La

Magdalena.

She skipped all the way up the path that sliced through the mead-

ows, taking pleasure from the crimson poppies that gently swayed to let her pass. The sea was calm and as blue as the sky that dazzled above it.

Little crickets chirruped merrily, invisible in the long grasses, and she smiled because they, too, filled her heart with joy. At last she reached the Etruscan town of Herba, where she lived with her father. The familiar sounds rose on the heat: the barking of a dog, the high-pitched

squeaking of children playing, the staccato cries of a mother berating

her child, the musty smell of ancient walls and fried onions.

Soon she was hurrying over paving stones, past yellow houses with

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of town. Widows in black dresses sat in doorways like fat crows, sew-

ing, gossiping, or fingering their rosaries, eyes squeezed shut, muttering inaudible prayers. Skinny dogs trotted in shadow along the wall,

stopping every now and then to sniff something of interest, lingering

outside the butcher’s in the hope of being tossed the odd scrap.

She took a narrow street that climbed steeply up the hill and hurried

beneath row upon row of washing lines. A woman leaned out of the

window to hang her dripping petticoat and called to her, but Floriana

was too busy to wave back and scampered on until she reached Piazza

Laconda, which opened in the heart of town like a giant sunflower.

There, dominating the square, was God’s own house, the most beautiful

building of all, la Chiesa di Santo Spirito.

She was now quite out of breath and slowed to a hasty walk. The sun

bathed the square in a bright golden light, and flocks of pigeons pecked the ground in search of crumbs or washed their dusty feathers in the

fountain. A restaurant spilled onto the cobbles, infusing the air with

the smell of olive oil and basil. Tourists sat at the little tables beneath stripy parasols, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, while local codgers sat in their waistcoats and caps playing
briscola
.

Floriana didn’t stop to talk to anyone on the way, although she was

well known in the town on account of her infamous mother, and cher-

ished like a stray dog. She went directly to the church to talk to the only Father who loved her unconditionally and was always there, no matter

what. She had to thank Him for her good fortune, because if she didn’t, she feared it might be taken away like her mother.

She stepped quietly over the shiny stone floor, inhaling the incense

that saturated the air and mingled with the sticky smell of melting

wax. A few people prayed in the pews, their shadowy figures kneeling

in the gloom. Tourists wandered around in T-shirts, muttering to each

other as they admired the frescoes and iconography. Gold leaf shone

in the candlelight, giving the haloes around the heads of the Virgin,

Christ, and the saints an otherworldly glow. Floriana felt at home there because she had been coming for as long as she could remember. Her

mother had been very religious, until she had sinned and turned her

back on God out of shame. Didn’t she realize that Jesus welcomed the

sinner with open arms? Floriana sinned all the time, like spying at La

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Magdalena, and she was full of pride and vanity, yet she knew God

loved her in spite of this, perhaps even
because
of this, for it was well known that, like His son, He loved sinners best of all. So did Father

Ascanio; otherwise, he wouldn’t have a job.

Floriana padded down the aisle to the table of candles, which stood

against the wall to the right of the nave. She lit one every day to pray that her father might find someone to run off with as well, because

she was weary of looking after him. So far, God hadn’t listened. She

would have thought the Virgin would be more sympathetic, being a

mother, but she seemed not to listen, either. Perhaps they didn’t real-

ize that he was utterly useless and a great burden. She’d be better off without him, then she could go and live with her aunt Zita. Aunt Zita

was her mother’s sister. She was married to Vincente, and they had five children already, so they could easily accommodate one more. In fact,

they’d barely notice another mouth to feed, because she was only small

and didn’t eat a lot.

With that thought in mind she lit her candle to thank God for

Dante and La Magdalena. She prayed that he’d wait for her to grow up

so that she could marry him. Then she sidled into a pew and knelt on

the cushion to pray. She glanced around at the other people in prayer

and wished they would all leave now so that God could hear what
she
had to say. It must be awfully distracting to have so many people talking all at the same time. But they didn’t leave, so she was left with no alternative but to think as loudly and clearly as she could.

She remained there for a long while, thanking God for every tree,

flower, bird, and cricket she had seen that morning. She was sure that

if she buttered Him up a little He might be better disposed towards

her when she got round to putting in her requests. Finally, she read

out her mental list. She did not ask for her mother back, which was

usually her most ardent desire, because she felt she couldn’t ask for too much and today she wanted to marry Dante more than she wanted her

mother. She hoped her mother would never find out.

When she had finished, she crossed herself in front of the altar,

smiling sympathetically at the statue of Christ on the cross, for the

poor man must be so tired of hanging there all the time, and left.

She found Costanza in the courtyard of her home, reading in the

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shade on a swing chair. Costanza lived in a big villa on the hillside

just outside the town, but it was run down, like the fortunes of her

once illustrious family. Her parents were aristocrats, carrying the titles
conte
and
contessa
, which greatly impressed Floriana, whose father was their chauffeur. They had once owned a grand palazzo on Via del Corso

in Rome, and a villa by the sea on the fashionable Amalfi coast. But

Costanza’s father had suffered big losses that Floriana didn’t under-

stand, and they had come to live in Herba when Costanza was three

years old, in the holiday house they had once used only for a few weeks each summer. There they shut themselves in, barely socializing with

anyone. But Costanza was lonely and isolated in her hilltop palace,

and even her snobby mother could see that she needed the company of

children her own age. So the countess finally relented and sent her to

the local school when she was six.

Her friend might have had the grand house and title, but Flori-

ana easily led by virtue of her charisma. Not only was she pretty, with a gamine little face and wide eyes, but she was confident of her appeal and instinctively clever. She had all the best ideas for games and seemed totally fearless when the games got a little dangerous, involving the sea or cliffs.

Costanza was not so physically blessed, with heavy features and a

stout body. She was afraid of heights and of drowning, and admired

her friend’s courage, looking on as Floriana showed off in front of

all the other children, causing them to catch their breaths as she per-

formed heroic acts for which their mothers would most surely beat

them. But she was jealous, too, that Floriana’s life was so carefree.

Costanza’s mother made her study, tidy her room, and mind her man-

ners, while Floriana had no one to tell her what to do and did as she

pleased. Costanza had felt sorry for her when her mother had run off,

but Floriana had thrown her pity right back in her face, puffed out

her six-year-old chest, and said, “Who needs a mother anyway?” So

Costanza envied her instead; she was too young to see the broken heart

behind the little girl’s defenses.

“
Ciao
,” said Floriana cheerfully, stepping into the courtyard where lemon trees grew in pots and tomatoes flourished on the south-facing