Last Letter Home Read online

  Because of one of those odd tricks of perspective, she could no longer see the house. Such an air of dereliction and loneliness lay over the place that she felt an answering melancholy. She yearned to slip between the gates or attempt to scale the crumbling wall that ran at head-height on either side, but she did not dare. Suppose the owner caught her and accused her of trespassing? Although she could read some Italian, she stumbled to speak it, and she’d have difficulty explaining herself. She smiled, imagining trying to charm some furious Mafioso type. The place appeared to be deserted, but the vehicle tracks told her she couldn’t be certain.

  The sun was dipping behind the hills and the sky bloomed crimson. Soon it would be dusk. With reluctance, Briony turned from the gates. As she scrambled her way down the hillside, tiny bats teased the edges of her vision as they swooped for insects.

  At the crag where she’d paused half an hour before, she was surprised to see someone else standing there, staring out across the valley. The sunset dazzled, but then she recognized that lanky figure, his hands in jeans pockets, that mane of nutbrown hair. It was Luke. ‘Hello,’ she called as she drew close.

  The light glinted off dark glasses as he turned. ‘Hey.’ He smiled his quirky smile. ‘Isn’t this amazing? I was trying to orient myself.’ He pointed over the valley. ‘Do you suppose that’s the road we came in by, Saturday?’

  Briony squinted at the silver ribbon winding down the hillside towards Tuana. ‘It must be.’

  ‘What did you find up there?’ Luke nodded in the direction she’d appeared from and she described the wild garden, and tried in vain to point out the roof of the old villa. Now, in the dying light, the trees appeared to be fused together in a dark slab.

  ‘Never mind. Perhaps another time.’

  ‘Yes.’ They stood quietly for a while watching a tiny train cross a distant hillside, then she asked, ‘Were you taking a walk, or did you come to find me?’

  ‘I saw you slip out earlier and . . . well, you were gone a long time. Aruna wondered if you were OK.’ Luke’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just needed some peace and quiet.’

  ‘Ah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.’ He raised his sunglasses and looked rueful.

  ‘You weren’t, honest.’

  ‘Good. The lovebirds have made it up, by the way. It’s safe to go back in the water.’ This last he said in a stagey whisper with an ironic twist of his eyebrows, and she burst out laughing. As he led the way back down the narrow path towards the villa, she felt happy because someone understood.

  ‘Mike’s all right really,’ Luke remarked. ‘He enjoys upsetting people with those grisly hospital tales. It’s best not to rise to it, then he’ll shut up.’

  ‘I think it’s horrible to talk like that about your patients.’ I do sound prim, Briony told herself, but to her relief, Luke nodded.

  ‘He’s an idiot. I don’t think Aruna realized exactly what she was taking on when she invited them. He was all right in London. Isn’t it strange when you see people out of their normal context? You notice new things about them.’

  ‘About how they really are?’

  ‘Different sides, perhaps. You still have to consider them as a whole.’

  She envied Luke his laid-back attitude. ‘I suppose so.’ Mike was affable enough, she had to admit, and could be amusing company, but when he’d had a drink or two he became loud, boorish. And – she felt a flash of anger – it was their precious holiday he was spoiling.

  ‘So, what about me?’ she said lightly. The path had widened and they were walking side by side now. ‘Am I different out of my milieu?’

  Luke didn’t answer for a moment. ‘Yes and no,’ he said finally, as though choosing the right words. ‘I think in London we instinctively act in a certain way; it’s a kind of armour, but here it’s easier to see behind that to the person beyond. A nice person in your instance, of course.’ He glanced at her with a grin.

  ‘That’s all right then. Sometimes I suspect the person inside me is a poor shrivelled thing.’

  ‘We all feel that about ourselves sometimes. I know I do. I suppose, since you asked, you seem a little . . . careworn. I’m sorry if I’m saying the wrong thing . . .’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she admitted. ‘I’m still unwinding, I think.’

  They trudged on in silence, Briony’s feeling of anxiety returning the closer they got to the villa. She was faintly alarmed now by the concerned glances Luke was throwing her. Perhaps she’d made a fool of herself by flouncing out and he thought her bonkers? But when they came to the door and he stood back to let her go first, their eyes met briefly. He did not smile, but his grey-blue eyes under the mop of springy hair danced with good-humoured complicity.

  ‘Thanks for coming to find me.’

  ‘No problemo,’ he said. ‘Aruna was worried.’

  ‘It is called the Villa Teresa,’ the stout barman of the tiny local tavern pronounced loftily the following day in answer to Briony’s question. He gave the round zinc table a deft wipe with a cloth and set before her a cappuccino and a glass of iced water. Then he glanced about the sunny terrace and lowered his voice. ‘No one lives there now, bella. There is, how you say, a difficulty.’ He spread his fingers to indicate a web of intrigue.

  ‘But who does it belong to?’ Beautiful, he’d called her. The way he’d spoken almost made her feel it. She lifted her sunglasses up onto her head and blinked up at him and ran a smoothing hand over her long hair, released from its usual neat chignon. The sun was lightening the pale brown to blonde, she’d noticed happily in the mirror that morning.

  More customers arrived, distracting him. ‘I do not know, signorita, sorry.’ With a bow of his head he stepped over to serve a silver-haired American couple who were settling themselves at a table nearby, the woman fanning herself with a tourist pamphlet, and her husband calling impatiently for acqua minerale.

  Briony sipped her coffee and flicked through the book she’d brought down with her. It was an illustrated account of the Allied forces’ liberation of Italy. Round here must have been quite a battleground, she realized as she examined the photographs, fought over by the Germans and the invading Allied forces. It was difficult to imagine now, sitting outside this pretty ochre-roofed café with its view of the arched bridge and the chattering river, though this terrace would have been the perfect lookout spot. ‘The Germans retreated, blowing up transport links as they went . . .’ she had begun to read, when—

  ‘Scusi, signorita.’ A soft female voice from the table behind, where previously there had been no one.

  She twisted round to meet the almond-eyed gaze of a fine-boned, middle-aged Italian woman in a long-sleeved top of royal blue who was sitting in the shade over a coffee. It took a second for Briony to recognize her as Mariella, the maid for their villa. Only yesterday she and her shy grown-up daughter had driven up with piles of fresh sheets and snowy towels which they had stowed in a cupboard before restoring the kitchen to order with tactful efficiency.

  ‘Buongiorno, Mariella, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you before. Sono Briony.’

  Mariella acknowledged this with a nod, but her eyes were on the book. ‘Per favore, Briony, the book?’

  Briony showed her the cover, then when Mariella reached out a beckoning hand, passed the volume to her. She watched the woman turn to the pictures with her long fingers, and was struck by the passionate expression in her eyes.

  ‘You, you know about this here?’ Mariella said, tapping the book, and Briony caught her meaning.

  ‘I’m a historian,’ she explained. ‘What happened here is fascinating to me. I write about the Second World War,’ and she explained about Women Who Marched Away, while the woman listened, examining Briony’s face with calm eyes. ‘Also,’ Briony added, ‘my grandfather, mio nonno. He was a soldier here, a British soldier.’

  At this Mariella stiffened and her stare intensified, leading Briony to wonder if she’d unwittingly given offence.
The war might be history to some, but she knew that for others it had left wounds that would never heal, with repercussions that affected their children, of whom Mariella might be one. She was still troubled when Mariella returned the book with a simple, ‘Grazie.’ The cleaner switched subjects. ‘La casa? The house? You are happy?’

  ‘Oh, very happy,’ Briony hastened to say. ‘Everything’s lovely, thank you.’

  ‘Prego,’ the woman replied vaguely, glancing again at the book. Then, ‘Signor Marco,’ she called over her shoulder and the proprietor appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, drying his big hands on a towel, his bald pate shining under the electric light. She spoke several sentences of Italian to him, too fast for Briony to follow, but the words ‘Villa Teresa’ kept being mentioned. Signor Marco replied with the same rapidity and Briony looked from one to the other trying to make sense of it all. Finally he retreated to his kitchen and the woman arranged her cardigan around her shoulders, collected a black tote bag from the floor and stood up to go. ‘Ciao, signorita.’

  ‘Ciao. Good to see you,’ Briony mumbled, still wondering what the conversation with Signor Marco had been about, and she watched Mariella call goodbye to him and wander out into the sunlight.

  There was something puzzling going on here, she reflected. Mariella, her slender frame bowed, walked slowly, deep in thought. Suddenly she paused, turned and stared back up at the café, a watchful expression on her face. Then she seemed to come to a decision, for with purposeful stride, she crossed the road and set off along a narrow footpath that vanished up the hill behind the village shop opposite. Briony stared after her, feeling considerably disturbed by the whole encounter. Had she unintentionally touched upon some secret trouble?

  Three

  The following morning Mike announced an outing to a nearby vineyard. Briony immediately elected to stay behind. ‘I’m feeling a bit tired,’ she lied. ‘You all go. I’ll do some shopping and book us a table for tonight.’ They were going to try a restaurant in the next village, which Aruna had found recommended in the visitors’ book.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Aruna asked, her face worried. Since Briony had returned from her evening escape the atmosphere in the house had been subdued and everyone except Luke had been giving her wary glances, which she hated.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said, trying her best to appear cheerful. ‘Really. I’m just not sleeping that well. It’s the heat.’ This was true, but so was the fact that she felt embarrassed by their concern and simply yearned for her own company.

  Aruna nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.

  After she had waved them off, Briony made the restaurant reservation then walked down the hill and bought a few supplies at the local shop, which she lugged back to put away in the kitchen. Then she made a pot of gorgeously scented coffee. Settling herself on a sunbed by the pool, she picked up a novel she’d bought at the airport. The pleasure of being by herself, with the thought of olive bread, soft cheese and fruit in the kitchen awaiting her, was immense. Then she heard the sound of a vehicle stopping outside in the lane. Surely they weren’t back already.

  There was a hammering on the front door. Surprised, Briony opened it to find an overgrown youth of about eighteen standing in the porch. At his feet lay a big cardboard box. He’d left his car with the engine turning and its ugly chugging annoyed her.

  ‘Buongiorno. For you,’ he said in heavily accented English, indicating the box.

  Briony glared at it with suspicion. It was grimy and bore a picture of a food mixer on its side.

  ‘For you,’ he repeated, his huge, dark-lashed eyes pleading. ‘My mama give.’

  ‘Sorry? Non capisco.’

  The boy waved his arms in frustration, then spun on his heel, pushing his hand through his thick black hair as he searched for words. He turned to face her again and tried a charming lopsided grin.

  ‘For you to see,’ he said. ‘Like TV. Thank you.’

  She studied him for a second, then hunkered down and pulled up the flaps on the box. Inside was a machine of some sort, though not a food mixer. An old film projector, she realized, and a couple of round shallow tins – old-fashioned film canisters. ‘I don’t think this can be for me,’ she said, miming ‘no’ with palms raised.

  ‘Si, si,’ he insisted. ‘Mama, she, she . . .’ He rubbed the air vigorously as though with a cloth on a window.

  ‘Cleaning? Oh, your mother is Mariella?’

  ‘Si, cleaner. Very good. This for you. I go now. Arrivederci, signorita.’ And he set off down the garden, stopping only to wave one last time.

  ‘What is it for?’ Briony called, too late. She watched him jump into his car, execute a hurried three-point turn and accelerate away with a screech of grinding metal, leaving a cartoon cloud of dust.

  Briony wriggled her bare toes, her arms folded, and stared down at the box. Why on earth had their cleaner sent them an old film projector? She sighed. Whatever the answer, she couldn’t leave it on the doorstep. She dragged the box into the kitchen where there was enough light to inspect the contents. She picked out one of the canisters. The slim round tin was so tightly closed that it took a few goes with a coin from her purse to prise it open.

  She was no expert, but the film inside appeared to be in usable condition. She found the end of the tape, unwound a long strip and held it up to the light, examining the place where the photographic film began, but could discern no identifiable image. She thought for a moment, then wound it up and returned it to its case.

  The presence of the box on the floor troubled her as she sat on a stool to eat her bread and cheese, hardly noticing the taste she’d so looked forward to. It occurred to her eventually that there might be an explanatory note with the gift. She hefted the machine up onto the table. The second tin contained only an empty reel. There was nothing else in the box nor anything written on the side. If only she had some idea of how to operate the wretched machine. Usually a technician would set film up for her if she needed it during research.

  She was still puzzling over it when, in the early afternoon, the others returned from their expedition, hot, bothered and, in Zara’s case, much the worse for the wine-tasting. ‘She drank it instead of spitting it out,’ Aruna whispered, as they watched Zara haul herself upstairs to lie down.

  Mike, carrying a box of clinking bottles into the kitchen, noticed the projector at once. ‘Hello, where did that come from?’ He set down the case next to it and picked up the canisters. He was breathing heavily and his fleshy face dripped with perspiration underneath his short thinning hair, but his eyes brightened as he examined the machine.

  ‘The cleaner’s son brought it over, I’ve no idea why.’

  ‘I might just be able to get this baby going,’ Mike murmured as he fitted the empty reel onto a sprocket. ‘My dad had one. He used to show us Charlie Chaplin films at Christmas. It was brilliant when he made them go backwards.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlebums,’ Mike’s deep voice boomed out of the shuttered darkness of the sitting room late that evening after they’d returned from the restaurant. ‘With any luck the show will now begin.’

  The white bed sheet Luke had rigged up as a screen caught a sudden square of winking yellow light that leaped from the projector.

  ‘There’s a spider on the sheet!’

  ‘Don’t be a wuss, Zara,’ Mike sighed.

  ‘Come on, little guy. It’s not your turn for the limelight.’ Luke nudged it to safety.

  The machine’s whirring loudened as the sprockets began to turn. A series of grainy black panels flickered over the sheet and then came a quivery black and white image. It took a moment for Briony to make it out. ‘A plane.’ It was tiny, flying smoothly in a cloudless sky, then suddenly it began to emit flames and black smoke and dipped and weaved, coming in and out of focus as the camera swooped to follow it. There were gasps from everyone in the room.

  ‘Any sound there, Mike?’ Aruna said urgently.

  ‘Can’t get any.’ />
  The plane dropped silently behind a hill and everyone groaned.

  ‘Ah,’ Mike said as the image changed. A panorama shot of a large, untidy garden, a couple of parked trucks.

  ‘Army, or something?’ said Luke.

  ‘There are no markings, but could they be British?’ Briony moved to a better vantage point, trying to see the details more sharply. Two men in uniform were unloading boxes from one of the vehicles, then there was a close-up shot of the soldiers’ faces, grinning for the camera. One made a V for Victory sign and his lips moved. ‘Definitely British,’ Briony muttered, seeing a badge on a sleeve.

  There was a whitish building of some sort in the background. Briony hoped the shot would pan out so she could see what it was, but instead it hovered over the boxes, then swooped round to show a small group of men sitting on crates playing cards and smoking. One made a monkey face, another waved, but a third hid his face with his arm. The camera zoomed in on the cards in his hand and then there must have been a scuffle after that because the picture spun chaotically towards the sky, and then there was a sudden glimpse of the white building again as it was righted. Window shutters, a pantiled roof.

  ‘A villa,’ Luke said quietly. ‘British soldiers at a villa here during the war.’

  ‘Seems like it,’ Briony agreed. The screen went dark then brightened again. This time the picture appeared to be a peaceful scene across a valley with all its terraces and groves of trees. ‘It’s our valley!’ Then she breathed in sharply. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘The bridge!’ They all spoke at once as they pointed out landmarks and noticed with dismay the wartime damage. A bomb crater; terraces ravaged by vehicle tracks; the shell of a burned-out house, charred rafters swaying in the wind; finally a shot of an overturned tank. A scrap of a boy with a rapturous smile stood balanced on the black cross on its side, one raised arm punching the air.

  And then, ‘Those gates,’ Briony cried out, when the picture changed again. ‘Luke, it’s the place I came across the other evening.’