The Italian Affair (33 page)

I
pushed the book back on the shelf, and went to find Nancy. I wasn’t in the mood for onions.

I
eventually tracked her down to the library, a room we rarely used. We still call it that, even though the majority of the books are gone, long sold to a dealer in Falmouth to help pay for a new damp course. The empty acres of mahogany shelves looked reprovingly at me.

She
was lying on her back, breathing heavily.

“Nancy,
what
are
you doing?” I asked in alarm. It looked as though she was recovering from some strenuous activity, but I couldn’t imagine what.

“Just
finishing off my deep breathing after yoga, you must try it Fin, it’s so invigorating!”

Nancy
was twice my age, and at least as twice as active. It made me feel like a lumpy schoolgirl. I sank into a sofa, and Baxter jumped up on my lap, trying to look ingratiatingly at me. He and I had had this tussle many, many times. I don’t approve of dogs on furniture, but it’s so exhausting stopping them all the time.

Nancy
was holding one nostril closed and breathing deeply out with the other one. At least, I
think
that’s what she was doing. It was quite hard to tell.

She
gave a big stretch and sat up, gracefully raising her arms above her head.

“Oh,
that feels better. What did Richard bring?”

“Fish,
salmon, I think. I haven’t looked yet.”

“Oh,
how lovely – Fin, are you alright? You look incredibly gloomy.”

Gloomy
was the word alright. I couldn’t quite pin point why though. I know that the idea of Oliver Dean coming here had unnerved me, but it was somehow more than that. A sort of Nordic fog had descended on me and I wasn’t sure why. I hated moaning to Nancy, especially when I didn’t really know what was wrong, it seemed petty and childish. I knew that she missed her sister, and her husband nearly as much as I did, and Nancy’s daughter, my cousin, Beatrice lived in Canada and made but infrequent trips over here to see her mother.

Nancy
looked at me shrewdly, “Fin, darling, there’s no point fretting over the chef, and as for anything else – well, life’s not so bad you know.”

“I
know, it’s just, well, I don’t know really.” I said, feeling a fool. I glanced around the room and remembered what it was like before the absence of the books. A fire would certainly have been lit in the grate, my father would be in his favourite chair, marking his racing tips out in pencil and my mother would be pouring tea. I could almost see them silhouetted in front of the flickering flames, and experienced a sudden ache in my heart. This sort of feeling happened all the time at Penmorah, and usually it could be a comfort. But this wasn’t one of those times. Baxter dug his nails into my leg as he jumped off my lap and went to sit in what had been my father’s chair, turning around and around till he was comfortable and then scratching his ear with his back paw.

“I
just don’t like this room very much,” I said brightly, “It’s enough to make anyone gloomy, isn’t it? Perhaps we should get it painted, what do you think?”

“I
think an evening at The Ram is called for, that’s my opinion, and all though I do say so myself, it’s a damn fine one. Now buck up, and let’s go.” Nancy stood up, dusting herself down.

She
was quite right of course.

I
followed her out of the library, calling to Baxter and firmly closed the door behind me. As I pulled the door shut, I had a sudden intense, almost overwhelming scent of roses that made not just me, but Baxter too, sneeze. The smell was so strong that it momentarily made me feel giddy and I leant back on the door.

“Where
are the roses, Nancy?” I asked, looking around, not having noticed them before.

“Don’t
be daft, darling. They’re not out for ages yet. Don’t say you’re getting hay fever already?”

I
shook my head and went into the hallway and followed the long corridor down to the kitchen. I heard Nancy call that she was just going to change her shoes. Nelson screeched at me as I entered the kitchen and I went over to rub his neck. His feathers were soft beneath my fingers, and I found myself whispering to him.

“They
were her favourite flower, weren’t they Nelson, roses?”

Nelson
winked at me, and I laughed at myself. I heaved the parcel of salmon off the table and pushed it into the fridge, and rinsed the tea mugs, waiting for Nancy.

It
was a glorious evening, bright and windy, and even Baxter deigned to behave like a young dog, scampering down the narrow lane, turning and waiting for us to catch up with him. He even stopped at the end of the lane so that I could tag his lead on. The road to the village was fairly treacherous, being, as is usual in the country without the benefit of any pavements. If a lorry was heard in the distance, you had to press yourself into the hedgerow, praying you wouldn’t get stung by the nettles or scratched by the brambles, or crushed against the high banks that were cunningly disguised with greenery but actually concealed high walls of stone.

We
passed a row of whitewashed cottages and waved at Mrs Trevelyon, who gamely waved back, despite being crippled with arthritis. The stores were busy with a delivery of frozen chips, and the local bakers were just closing up, with Doris, the bakers wife, wiping the shelves in the window. She banged on the glass to us, and mouthed that she too was going to The Ram and would see us in there.
That
should prove interesting. Doris was the official rumour control around here, and we would no doubt get a full account of Breadpudding from her.

The
Ram is set back from the road, and has a small plot of grass outside with a couple of trestle tables begrudgingly put down for any passing trade that is foolish enough to want to nurse a pint outdoors, the locals have no truck with sitting in the fresh air. A cosy, stone flagged bar, with low ceilings, where they can work up a thick fug is what they want, and is what The Ram provides. The pub sign swung on its post, making the gold and scarlet ram look alive.

I
pushed the door open, and Nancy followed me through. It took a few moments for the eye to adjust to the gloom inside the pub, but I could make out a few regulars inside and called out greetings to them. I turned to Nancy to ask her what she’d like. We both usually drank the local beer (wine really wasn’t an option at The Ram, unless you have a real yearning for something sweet and warm.)

“No,
this was my idea, and it’s my treat,” she announced, leaning on the bar and looking for Sam, the landlord.

Sam
emerged form the other end of the bar, wiping his hands, and beamed at us. He was evidently delighted to see Nancy, and the two of them conducted a ritualistic flirty greeting.

“Now
then, what’ll it be, ladies?” he enquired.

“I
think we should have something different, something to cheer Fin up a bit. I know, we’ll have the drink I was reading in a book the other day, they sounded delicious.” Nancy said confidently.

“What’s
that then?” Sam said, twinkling at her.

“Two
long slow comfortable screws against the wall, please Sam.”