A Funeral in Fiesole (9 page)

Singing in church

Grant looked splendid in his dark suit and gunmetal grey shirt and tie. They all stared at him, disbelief plain on their faces that he was there with me, my partner. How could Brod possibly land someone so statuesque, so handsome, they must have thought. What’s more, in my fifties – incredible. It was about time they thought I did something great. Something only I could do. Mind you, it was still surprising to me, and I sometimes pinched myself that someone so calm and successful and good-looking was interested in me.

He was supremely tactful and kept to one side, both in the church and at the cemetery. The long drive between the two places was quiet. Too long, too bright, with the watery afternoon sun in my eyes as I drove. We had Tad with us in the car. He sat at the back and didn’t say a word. Still in his tight school blazer, he wore a thin black tie as a concession to the occasion. I saw in the rear view mirror he hung his head often, lolling forward as if dozing off, and starting up again when his head nodded. It could have been the warmth and motion of the car, an endearing thing.

He didn’t say a word, but I had heard him singing in church; a surprising clear, high tenor voice in perfect time, even with canned music coming forth from poor quality speakers at an embarrassing and startling volume.

Nigel’s face was a picture of horror. He could not have foretold or avoided the atrocious acoustics, but he flapped his arms, frustrated, pushed to some sort of reaction, and I could see Harriet was hoping he would not erupt during the proceedings.

Luckily, everything went rather well if one omitted my reading, but I expected to be wound up and emotional. I did my best, but could tell from the way Grant sat he was waiting, waiting, for the whole thing to be over.

Mind you, I was dreading the reading of the will, because I knew Nigel would resent someone like me, with no children, no debts, nothing like the enormous responsibilities he had, would receive an equal quarter of Mama’s estate, same as his. I doubted there would be any surprises. There was the house in Cornwall, the villa up in Fiesole, and all the bits and pieces accumulated during her lifetime. I knew there was some source of private income, whose type and value I was unaware of, but no one discussed it.

Paola wanted to, at dinner the previous night. Nigel’s face prevented any discussion of the kind. Suzanna and Lewis talked about their boating plans, which was foremost on both their minds. It sounded like a pretty solid plan, and I imagined whatever they inherited would simply make their boat-buying exercise a bit easier.

I was starting to regret having to sell the villa, and stood at the big back window before we went in for the reading, and gazed out towards the back. It was darkening to pitch black from indigo, with a few twinkling lights in the distance. Left to myself, I used the calculator on my phone to make a few quick estimates of what it would entail to buy my three siblings out. I bit my lip, and imagined Mama in the armchair behind me, bidding me wait. All the calculations in the world couldn’t figure something that, until the reading, was a closed box. It was purely hypothetical, a silly conjecture, and wouldn’t tell me a thing.

I pocketed my phone.

‘I think the funeral went well, Brod.’ Grant came up behind me. He had changed into jeans and sweater, and handed me one of two wine glasses he held.

‘Adequately well. Nigel nearly lost it before we all got into the cars.’

‘Everyone was wound up. Your older sister was in tears. Suzanna’s husband got a bit teary too.’

‘Lewis?’

‘Hmm. How well did he know your mother?’

‘Well enough. Mama knew us all very well. I think she liked him quite a lot, and thought he was a very appropriate partner for Suzanna.’ This was enough to trigger a memory I had of my twin and her string of weird teenage boyfriends. She adopted their habits, dress, activities, and accents while she was ‘in love’, which either dismayed Mama, sent her into silent shivers of laughter, or made her roll her eyes. ‘I think Lewis was a surprise to us all. Mama did not think it would last.’

‘And look at them.’ Grant seemed to think they had a good relationship.

‘Hmm. Look at them.’

‘Suzanna hasn’t stopped talking about the wall gods. She wants them painted over.’

Grant’s eyes widened. ‘The frescoes in the hall? You’re joking. They’re magnificent.’

‘She says they’re a mess and the whole space would improve if painted pearl grey.’

‘No! No – whoever ends up with this house … and I wish it could be us, Brod, I do wish …’

I smiled. ‘I know you and your wishes, Grant.’

He elbowed my arm. ‘They usually come true. Whoever gets this house should have the frescoes restored. Properly, by someone talented and patient.’

‘And cheap.’

‘Hah! Not necessarily. Think of all those back bedrooms. That large space downstairs would make a perfect meeting or conference room … or indoor reception space. There should be a pool at the spot you showed me … and the grassed area above the terrace is perfect for a marquee.’

‘Grant!’

‘No – true. Think about it.’

I raked my hair back, seeing he had spent time thinking, considering, and undoubtedly calculating what it would all cost. ‘What – weddings, parties, anything? Grant, all four of us, and our various spouses and children, would never agree about Thing One.’

He shrugged. ‘So I see. You and Suzanna … never, although she’s your twin. Two more different characters I have never met. You and Nigel … warfare. He’s only just in control, and quite volatile. Not malicious at all, but not totally organized. I doubt he has any financial nous. You and Paola …’

‘Yes?’

We both swivelled to Paola’s voice in the passage.

‘Thought I’d find you two down here. Did I hear my name?’

I spoke quickly. ‘Have you … we were wondering about the reading. Is the notary ready to start?’

‘We’re
all
wondering about the reading of the will.’ Her mouth was a small straight line. ‘There aren’t many alternatives or options. We’re going to be left the awful task of selling everything, paying the inheritance tax, and dividing the spoils. I wish we didn’t have to. I’ve wondered and wondered …’ Her eyes held something I hadn’t seen before. A glint of something. ‘The task should not be left to Nigel, whatever we do – he’s done enough organizing.’

‘They did a marvellous job of looking after Mama.’

Her head swung from side to side in half-agreement. ‘Something tells me the will might recompense Nigel and Harriet in some way.’

‘But how?’

‘They’re all in there waiting. The notary is about to start. Let’s go in.’ She smiled at Grant.

It made me quite happy to see Paola and Grant get on so well. There was something compatible between them, my partner and my older sister. She was visibly more relaxed in his company, and it was obvious Grant wanted to know and like my family.

The people behind events

The notary, Dottor Umberto Ugobaldi, shuffling papers and peering up at us four in turn, over those dated metal-rimmed glasses, was like something out of a clichéd movie of the eighties. Truly as bombastic and pretentious as his splendid name. When he stared into my eyes I imagined – what a peculiar sensation – I had been especially favoured in the will he was about to read. The thin smile, the subtle rise of his prominent chin.

Then I saw he gave Paola the same gaze, when she entered, unusually late, with Brod. Grant had wandered off on his own. The notary scanned the room, only to pull back and look directly into Nigel’s face, with a tacit meaningful smile. When his narrow-eyed scrutiny swung round to Brod, there was the ingratiating expression again. By the third time, I saw it was absolutely meaningless, and that he smiled in such an absurd quasi-meaningful way at all his clients, whether they were listening to a will being read, a parcel of land being sold off, or a contract about some factory or other. If he handled the sale of one of my franchises, he would undoubtedly put the advantageous smile to good use.

There was no need for him to offer condolences, or to launch into a speech, because he had earlier spoken to us outside the cemetery. With the startling statuary behind him, the constant hum of traffic circling the oval burial ground, the lichen on drystone walls, which solidly retained the central mound, and the damp cypresses behind him, he mumbled his words of sympathy, in Italian, with narrow eyes behind glasses sparkling in the watery sunshine. ‘
Ecco
,’ he said, to finish off, and we all thanked him at once.

For some reason of Mama’s I shall never fathom, we hosted a quick intimate reception at a church hall not far away, where three nuns in short habits and abbreviated grey wimples inclined their grey heads and smiled at us. There were – of all things – small English sandwiches and tea, which the Italian guests regarded with curiosity.

‘Who did the catering, Nigel?’ I had to ask.

He mumbled something unintelligible and moved away to talk to someone else. Finally, we all climbed into the cars again and drove up to the villa. I hoped Dottor Ugobaldi would give us enough time for me to get out of the red shoes, which were killing me. The heels had sunk into the damp grass at the cemetery, and I hoped they were not ruined.

From the passenger window of our car, Lewis and I could see Nigel, animated, talking to Harriet in a way I recognized as his angry mood. It was obvious Nigel had come to the end of his rope, and was allowing anger to drive him every which way! It was funny in certain respects. He hadn’t changed. Tempestuous Nigel, whose fiercest emotion was fury.

Brod had changed only a bit, since it was easy to see being with Grant had calmed him considerably, but it still took him ages to decide about anything. The agony and long-windedness of what would happen when it came to the division of the inheritance was going to prove painful because of Brod. He dithered and ducked and wove every time there was an alternative, a fork in his path! Dealing with Italian bureaucracy was enough in my opinion. Adding Brod to the mix would be pure murder!

What could I say about my big sister? Still tongue-tied and woefully introverted, the transparency of her thoughts was as observable as her stubbornness. Insistent in a silent way. She disapproved of everything with scarcely a word. On this occasion, though, I felt there was something pulling and pushing at her. Did she think we were all Mama’s favourites apart from her, and calculated she’d come out the worst in the will? Goodness knew. So calculating, was Paola, I sometimes wondered if she ever glimpsed the people behind the events, behind the figures.

Something was biting her, and she was not about to tell. Not to me, at least. Definitely not to Harriet. My sister Paola was not the confiding sort, and always felt better with complete strangers, which is why I thought she liked Grant better than any of us.

She had stood next to him at the reception, rather than talk to the nuns. Now, she sat quietly, nodding occasionally, listening to the notary’s long-winded legal spiel. Such an eager face! Such straight thin lips! Our old maid Matilde used to call Brod and me the greedy twins, but the greediest of us by far was Paola.