‘I really think we should join the others, Mrs Delahunty.’
Although I’d said it was to be my treat, he had already placed a note on the table and within a few minutes we were back on the street again. I had to hurry to keep up with him.
‘I just thought,’ I said, a little breathless, ‘a few minutes’ rest might be nice for you, Mr Riversmith.’
Although he in no way showed it, I believe he may possibly have appreciated that. I believe his vanity may have been flattered. He slowed his stride, and we stepped together into the bright sunlight of the Campo. The others were seated round an outside table beneath a striped blue and white awning. To my horror, Quinty and the maid were there also. Quinty was boring the General with details of the Tour de France.
‘I see Jean-Francois has taken the Yellow,’ he was saying as we approached them, and the old man nodded agreeably. He showed me a book of flowers he’d bought, the text in Italian but with meticulously detailed illustrations of azaleas. ‘Mollis and Knaphill,’ he said, a forefinger following the outline of the species. ‘Kurume and Glenn Dale. We shall make them grow.’
Otmar and Aimée were looking through their postcards. Rosa Crevelli had opened a powder compact and was applying lipstick. Having given up his effort to interest the General in bicycle-racing, Quinty was smiling his lopsided smile, his head on one side, admiring her.
‘I’ve bought a really gorgeous hen,’ I said.
I carefully unwrapped my prize. Aimée gasped when the pretty thing emerged from its black tissue paper.
‘They have crocodiles and serpents as well, Aimée, but I thought the hen the best.’
‘Wow, it’s fantastic!’
‘ “Who’ll help me grind my corn?” D’you know about the little red hen, Aimée?’
She shook her head.
‘ “I won’t,” said the dog. “I won’t,” said the cat.’ I told the tale in full, as Mrs Trice had related it to me so very long ago, when I was younger than Aimée.
‘Well, I never heard that one,’ Quinty said. ‘Capisci?’ he asked Rosa Crevelli. ‘Signora’s on about a farmyard fowl. Una gallina.’
I leaned toward Mr Riversmith, next to whom I was seated, and said I had hoped Quinty and the girl would have lunch on their own. ‘I must apologize for your having to sit down with servants.’
He shook his head as if to say it didn’t matter. But it did matter. It was presumptuous and distressing. I attracted a waiter’s attention and indicated that Mr Riversmith would be grateful for an Old Fashioned and that I’d like a gin and tonic myself. I did so quietly; but Quinty has an ear for everything.
‘G and t!’ he shouted down the table at the waiter, who repeated the abbreviation, appearing to be amused by it. ‘You like g.t.?’ he offered everyone in turn. ‘I like,’ Rosa Crevelli said. Mr Riversmith said he didn’t want an Old Fashioned.
‘It wasn’t arranged, she invited herself. They’re lame ducks, as you might say.’
Quinty had been down and out, I went on; the girl was of gypsy stock. As I spoke, the waiter returned with my gin and tonic, and one for Rosa Crevelli as well. ‘Due g.t.!’ he shouted, affecting to find the whole episode comic. When taking our orders for lunch he clowned about, striking attitudes and rolling his eyes. All this had been started off by Quinty and the maid. I drew Mr Riversmith’s attention to the fact, but added that they meant no harm.
‘It can be hurtful,’ I said, ‘but there you are.’
The General had put his horticultural manual aside and was describing to Otmar the purpose of different kinds of spades. Quinty joined in the conversation, saying something about a local firm that would supply fertilizer at a good price. When labour was required he advised the General to get estimates. In Italy nothing was done without an estimate. There was a babble of Italian from Rosa Crevelli and everyone had to wait while it was translated. It didn’t amount to much, something to do with where urns for the azaleas might be obtained.
‘A most extraordinary thing,’ I remarked to Mr Riversmith, unable any longer to resist telling him about the dream. While I was speaking the waiter came with bottles of wine and mineral water. He joked again, pouring me two glasses of wine and then, in mock confusion, a third one. Aimée enjoyed his nonsense, and I suppose it was innocent enough.
‘No more than a boy you were,’ I said. ‘Fifteen or so.’
But Mr Riversmith displayed no interest. I asked him if he had dreamed himself the night before and he insisted he hadn’t. He rarely did, he said.
I suggested, though diffidently, that none of us can get through a night’s sleep without the assistance of dreams. Sometimes we forget we dream. We remember briefly and then forget. Or do not remember at all.
‘I am not familiar with the subject,’ Mr Riversmith said.
Hoping to encourage him, I carefully retailed the details of the dream. I described the boy he’d been. I described the child his sister, Phyl, had been. I asked him if he remembered a Venetian blind that on occasion might have rattled, a slat tapping against the kitchen window-frame.
‘No.’
The reply came too quickly. To remember, it is necessary to think for a moment, even for several minutes. But I didn’t want to press any of this. I finished my drink and pushed away a plate of soup, not caring for the taste of it. It was disappointing that Mr Riversmith wasn’t going to bother, but of course it couldn’t be helped.
‘I just thought I’d mention it,’ I said.
I don’t think he spoke again while we had lunch but afterwards, as we walked through the streets to where the car was, I noticed to my surprise that he attempted to engage Rosa Crevelli in conversation. Since her English scarcely exists, it must have been an extremely frustrating experience for him. It was all the more bewildering that he appeared to persevere.
I was a little upset by this and somewhat gloomily walked with the General, whose slow pace suited me. The day before I’d noticed further letters from the two firms of solicitors, so I raised the subject as we made our way together.
‘I’ve written to say I am creating a garden.’
‘Good for you, General!’
‘I’ve been meaning to say, actually: you’ve no objection to Otmar and myself delaying our departure a while, have you?’
‘Of course I haven’t.’
‘He’s nervous to mention it to you, but he’s wondering if the garden could be his way of paying for his board and lodging?’
‘Of course it could be.’
‘From me, it’s a gift, you understand? I shall continue to pay my weekly whack.’
‘That’s as you like, General.’
Since we were passing various small cafés and bars I suggested that he might rest for a few minutes and have another cup of coffee. He readily agreed, and when we found somewhere agreeable I decided not to have more coffee but ordered a glass of grappa instead.
‘A garden can’t make up for anything.’ The old man, quite suddenly, returned to the subject, perhaps feeling that this was the time to say it, now that he had me on my own for a few minutes. ‘But at least it will mark our recovery in your house.’
‘Stay as long as you like.’ I replied softly, knowing that that, really, was what we were talking about.
‘You’re kind,’ he said.
We made a detour on our journey back to my house, turning off the main road and winding our way up to a Benedictine monastery. It was cool and leafy, with a coloured sculpture high up in an archway, and another in the same position on the other side: this is the abbey of Monte Oliveto Maggiore, as close to heaven on earth as you will ever find. With the exception of the General, we all descended several flights of steps, through a forest of trees, to the monks’ church in a cool hollow below. Along the cloisters were murals of St Benedict’s life. Doves cooed at one another, occasionally breaking into flight. In the monks’ shop mementoes were laid out tastefully.