cheap material, and it hung loosely on her slender frame, evidently made for someone wider and shorter. It was a pity, she thought, that Franco hadn’t kept some of Rosemary’s clothes, but, after all, it had been over a year.
And then, with a prickle up her spine, she remembered the words he’d exchanged with Celia. And she suddenly understood that he did, indeed, have some of Rosemary’s clothes, and Celia had wanted to fetch them, and Franco had forbidden it.
She went down to find Nico waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. After the initial confusion he seemed less disturbed than anyone at seeing his mother’s image, and Joanne blessed the instinct that had made Rosemary bring him to England. Clearly he remembered her from that visit.
He proved it by holding up a colouring book she’d given him. ‘I’ve done it all,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’
He seized her hand and pulled her over to a small table in the corner. Joanne went through the pages with him, noticing that he’d completed the pictures with a skill unusual in children of his age. He had a steady hand, taking colours up to the lines but staying neatly within them in a way that suggested good control. It reminded her of her own first steps in colouring, when she’d shown a precision that had foreshadowed her later skill in imitating.
When they’d been through the book Nico shyly produced some pages covered in rough, childish paintings, and she exclaimed in delight. Here too she could see the early evidence of craftsmanship. Her genuine praise thrilled Nico, and they smiled together.
Then she looked up and found Franco watching them oddly. ‘Nico, it’s time to wash your hands for supper,’ he said. He indicated the pictures. ‘Put everything away.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ Nico said, too docilely for a child. He tidied his things and went upstairs.
‘It’s strange to find the house so quiet,’ Joanne said wistfully. ‘When I first came here there were your parents and Renata, with everyone shouting and laughing at the same time.’
‘Yes, there was a lot of laughter,’ Franco agreed. ‘Renata visited us recently, with her husband and two children. They made plenty of noise, and it was like the old days. But you’re right, it’s too quiet now.’
‘Nico must be a lonely little boy,’ Joanne ventured.
‘I’m afraid he is. He relies on Ruffo a lot for company.’
‘Is Ruffo still alive?’ she asked, delighted.
Franco gave a piercing whistle out of the window. And there was Ruffo, full of years, looking vastly wise because the black fur of his face was mostly white now. At the sight of Joanne he gave a yelp of pleasure and hurried over to her.
‘He remembers me. After all this time.’
‘He never forgets a friend,’ Franco agreed.
She petted the old dog with real pleasure, but she also knew she was using him to cover the silence that lay between herself and Franco. She began to feel desperate. She’d known that Franco would be changed, but this grave man who seemed reluctant to speak was a shock to her.
‘So tell me what happened to you,’ he said at last. ‘Did you become a great artist?’
His words had a faint ironical inflection, and she answered ruefully, ‘No, I became a great imitator. I found that I had no vision of my own, but I can copy the visions of others.’
‘That’s sad,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘I remember how badly you wanted to be an artist. You couldn’t stop talking about it.’
It was a surprise to find that he recalled anything she’d said in those days.
‘I have a good career. My copies are so perfect that you can hardly tell the difference. But, of course,‘ she added with a sigh, ‘the difference is always there, nonetheless.’
‘And do you mind that so much?’
‘It was hard to realize that I have no originality.’ She tried to turn it aside lightly. ‘Doomed to wander for ever in someone else’s footsteps, judged always by how much I echo them. It’s a living, and a good one sometimes. It just isn’t what I dreamed of.’
‘And why are you in Italy now?’
‘I’m copying some works for a man who lives in Turin.’
‘And you spared us a day. How kind.’
She flushed under his ironic tone. Franco plainly thought badly of her for keeping her distance, but how could she tell him the reason?
‘I should have called you first,’ she began.
‘Why should you? My wife’s cousin is free to drop in at any time.’
She realized that his voice was different. Once it had been rich, round and musical. Now it was flat, as though all the music of life had died for him.
A harassed-looking girl came scurrying out of the kitchen carrying a pile of clean plates, pursued by Celia’s voice bawling instructions. The girl fled outside and began laying plates on the table.
‘Despite the short notice Celia is preparing a banquet in your honour,’ Franco informed her. ‘That’s why she’s a little tense. My foreman and his family are eating with us tonight.’
‘I love to remember the meals we had under the trees.’
‘You were always nervous about the flowers hanging from the trellis. You said they dropped insects over you.’
‘You did that. You slipped a spider down the back of my dress once.’
‘So I did,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘That was to punish you for revealing to my mother that you’d seen me with a woman she disapproved of.’
‘I didn’t mean to betray you,’ Joanne protested. ‘It slipped out by accident.’
‘I paid for your accident. My mother slapped me and screamed at me. I was twenty-four, but that didn’t impress her.’
They shared a smile, and for a brief moment there was a glimpse of the old, humorous Franco. Then he was gone.
‘Why don’t you have a look around, while I wash up?’ he said. ‘You’ll find the house much the same.’
‘I’d already begun to notice that. I’m glad. This was a happy place.’
She could have bitten her tongue off as soon as the words were out. It was as if Franco were turned to stone. His face was like a dead man’s. Then he said simply, ‘Yes, it was happy once.’
He walked away, leaving her blaming herself for her own clumsiness. This visit was turning into a disaster. Franco had said his foreman’s family was eating with them ‘tonight’, which suggested that they’d been invited specially. Obviously her presence was a strain, and he needed some relief.
It had been madness to come here.
CHAPTER THREE
JOANNE
