2008 - Recipes for Cherubs (12 page)

Ella looked critically at herself; she had never been remotely beautiful, not even close to pretty, although her eyes were reasonable; her nose was rather on the large side though not hideous. Her mouth had always been her best feature but now it was drawn down because of all the years without smiling. She practised a smile hesitantly, and then frowned. It had been more of a grimace than a smile, so out of practice was she.

She got to her feet, took a last dissatisfied look in the mirror, and sighed. She made her way slowly down the stairs to the kitchen and set about boiling a kettle on the old stove. After a good strong cup of tea, she would have to think about what she would do with this blasted great-niece of hers. The sooner she could get shot of her and get back to Shrimp’s the better.

C
atrin woke as the first watery light came pricking through the bedroom window, rinsing away the shadows of the night. Outside, the air was alive with birdsong and someone was whistling cheerfully.

She sat up in the big bed, yawned and sniffed. She smelt of sour sweat and unwashed hair and she realised with horror that it was almost three days since she’d last washed. When she was fully awake she’d go down to the bathroom and bath and then she must ring her school again – one of the nuns was bound to answer the telephone this morning, and her worries would be over. Sister Matilde would drive down in the old school jalopy and rescue her. Hip hip hooray, she’d be on her way out of Kilvenny for ever.

Aunt Ella would be glad to see the back of her and could hurry back to Shrimp’s Hotel and lock herself in with the mice and cobwebs and strange men who hid in wardrobes for fun. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

There was a knock at the bedroom door and before she had time to hide beneath the blankets, Aunt Ella backed into the room and set a battered tray down on the bedside table, nodding curtly to Catrin. Catrin’s heart sank as she looked with loathing at the boiled eggs and the plate of thickly buttered toast soldiers. She’d eaten the chicken soup last night because she was too embarrassed to turn it down, but she wasn’t going to stuff herself stupid on eggs and bread.

“I thought you might want some breakfast. You look as if you haven’t eaten much in a long while.”

Catrin felt her face redden with indignation. Why did people go on about food all the time? No one needed to eat three square meals a day.

“I’m fine, thank you. I don’t actually have a big appetite.”

“You don’t look as if you eat enough to keep a sparrow alive.”

“Looks can be very deceptive,” Catrin retorted.

Ella edged away towards the door, her mouth set in a grim line. “Of course, if you can’t eat, rather than won’t eat, I could get the doctor in to take a look at you.”

Catrin bit back the urge to snap: if Ella did call a doctor to look at her, they’d know something was wrong.

“Fine,” she mumbled, leaning across for the tray.

“Do you have any plans for today?” Ella asked.

Catrin ignored her. She was making it sound as if she was On a proper holiday and not waiting to escape from a bad dream. She wanted to say sarcastically, “Oh, yes, I’ll have a swim and sunbathe and then maybe a game of tennis.” Instead she said through clenched teeth, “I’d like to find a telephone and ring my school again, if that’s all right with you.”

“There’s no point.”

“I’d still like to.”

“I, er, rang them yesterday evening from the library.”

Catrin brightened visibly and sat up in bed. “Are they coming for me today?” she asked, hope rising in her voice.

“I’m afraid not.”

Catrin looked at Ella through narrowed eyes. She could tell she was lying. “How did you find out the number?”

“If you remember, you mentioned the name of your school to me yesterday and I got the number from the operator.”

“And the nuns really said that I had to stay here all summer?” Catrin asked in disbelief.

“Not exactly. I actually spoke to a man.”

“There aren’t any men at my school, so you must have got the wrong number,” Catrin said with triumph.

“The man I spoke to was, in fact, a doctor. Apparently there’s been an outbreak of scarlet fever and none of the sisters was available to speak to me.”

Catrin glanced down at the tray of food. For two pins she’d snatch up the boiled eggs and hurl them across the room at this mad old woman.

She clamped her lips together and tried to batten down her rising anger.

“I’m sure we’ll sort something out for you before long.”

“You can’t keep me here against my will, you know.”

Ella raised her eyebrows and laughed. “I’ve no intention of keeping you here any longer than necessary.”

“I didn’t ask to come here in the first place.”

“And I certainly didn’t ask your feckless mother to send you here. I expect she was desperate and Shrimp’s was the last resort.”

Ella took a sidelong look at Catrin and felt immediately sorry for speaking so sharply. She was a mere scrap of a girl, bewildered and afraid. She had very beautiful eyes, rather like Ella’s brother William, the sort of eyes that looked as if they’d been drawn with charcoal and smudged around the lashes. She was bound to take after the Grieves –  after all, William was her grandfather.

She watched Catrin wipe her eyes surreptitiously on a corner of the sheet. Don’t be fooled by tears, Ella Grieve, she told herself. Some people could turn them on like a tap.

“I don’t know why she sent me here, either. She must have known you wouldn’t want me.”

“I expect she thought Alice would welcome you with open arms. Alice was always a soft touch where Kizzy was concerned.”

“But Alice is dead,” Catrin said.

“Yes, she is, dead and gone, but your mother wouldn’t have known that. I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at. The last thing I need in my life is a child to look after.”

“And the last thing I need is a…”

“A what?”

Catrin was going to say ‘a mad old aunt who lives in a pigsty’ but seeing the stern set of Ella’s face she thought better of it. “Nothing.”

“Go on, tell the truth and shame the devil.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, spit out whatever it is you want to say, and clear the air.”

“I don’t want to say anything. I just want to go away from here, that’s all.”

“You will soon enough when we can get hold of that useless article of a mother of yours.”

“But I don’t even know how to find her. All I know is that she’s somewhere in Italy.”

“What the hell is she doing in Italy?”

“She said she was going to meet someone she’d known at school.”

“Well, I’ll find her somehow, even if I have to ring the bloody Pope himself.”

Catrin looked aghast. Was she mad? You couldn’t just ring the Pope. He was a very busy man. Didn’t she know anything?

Ella turned on her heel and walked towards the door.

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” Catrin called after her.

“For starters, eat your breakfast.” Catrin turned her head away in fury and did not look back until the door had closed behind Ella and her footsteps had died away down the corridor.

She looked longingly at the food in front of her, ached to pick up the spoon and crack the brown shell of the egg, watch the yellow yolk rise up and dribble over the side. The smell of toast was unbearable and she imagined how it would feel to dip a toast soldier into the warm egg.

The temptation to eat was so great that if she didn’t distract herself straight away she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She got quickly out of bed and looked around for a suitable hiding place. She hid the boiled eggs in the back of an empty wardrobe, opened the window and stuck the toast butter side down against the outside wall of the castle. They might be able to make her stay here until they found her mother but they couldn’t force her to eat.

She threw herself down on the bed, hid her face in the pillow and punched the bed with clenched fists until she was exhausted. When her anger was finally spent she picked up the strange book she had been reading last night and thumbed through the pages, losing herself once again in the beautiful paintings, transporting herself to another place, another time, far away from horrible Kilvenny.

S
ignor Bisotti emerged from the sombre darkness of the church of Santa Rosa into the light as the Angelus bell began to chime. He stepped backwards as an old donkey, escaped from his tethering and laden with panniers of fruit, came clattering along the cobbles. Signor Bisotti ducked when a large split lemon bounced up off the cobbles, narrowly missing his head
.

The good Lord must surely be looking down on him this morning, for if he had stepped out a moment sooner he might be nursing a blackened eye or missing a few of his crooked teeth
.

He crossed the square, passed the fountain where the chipped and mossy cherubs splashed in the cascades of frothing water. He kept to the shade, staying close to the high walls that surrounded his house, the Villa Rosso, the largest, most luxurious house in the town. He smiled at this thought; he was very proud of his wealth and his standing in Santa Rosa
.

He walked with an unaccustomed spring in his step because Father Rimaldi had given him some very good news indeed. The priest had returned from a visit to the enclosed order of nuns at Santa Lucia, some miles away. Father Rimaldi had persuaded the nuns to take Signor Bisotti’s youngest daughter, Ismelda, off his hands in the coming autumn. Of course, nothing was free in this world, and in return for his trouble Father Rimaldi had demanded a payment of sorts, and that was why Signor Bisotti had agreed to commission Piero di Bardi to paint a scene of feasting cherubs to be hung in the church. That didn’t come cheap, but what was money in exchange for a life without Ismelda?

Signor Bisotti sighed with satisfaction. Ismelda had been a trial to him ever since she was a baby and lately she had been even more tiresome than usual. Now that she was older it was harder to cover up her peculiar ways. Only last week she had made a slingshot, hurled a pomegranate over the wall and hit one of the old sisters from the Santa Rosa convent
.

She was a noisy, foul-mouthed child, always up to some mischief or other. He had even had to move her from her upstairs bedroom into a downstairs room which faced on to the internal courtyard, because the upstairs rooms had balconies overlooking the piazza. God forbid that the nosy townspeople should see the sort of things that she got up to when she wasn’t being watched. She was far safer downstairs with the added protection of bars on the window and the door being locked at night
.

Why in God’s name couldn’t she have been more like his eldest daughter, Marietta? She was a good, biddable girl, suitably married now and hopefully soon to produce grandchildren, although she was taking rather a long time in doing so
.

There had been only one dark cloud on his horizon and now that little problem was about to be solved. By the time the first leaves began to fall and the cooler winds blew up the narrow valley, he would be free. Ismelda would be safely incarcerated with the holy sisters at Santa Lucia convent, who would knock some sense into that thick skull of hers
.

It wouldn’t be plain sailing and there would be opposition from one quarter. Maria Paparella would not take kindly to losing Ismelda, for they were as close as if they were mother and daughter. Maria had seen to all the child’s many needs since the death of his wife. Thinking of Maria dented his rising optimism. She had the most formidable temper he’d ever seen in a young woman, and telling her that Ismelda was going to be sent away to the nuns would not be an easy matter
.

Still, she was a servant and servants did as they were told, did they not? That was the trouble in these modern times; the peasant people were getting above themselves. Why, that blasted little dwarf, Bindo, had actually had the nerve to climb into the garden of the Villa Rosso this morning. It was just as well for him that he had managed to escape, though how he had was a mystery. When Signor Bisotti was a boy, a cheeky half-wit like that would never have dared to insult a man of Signor Bisotti’s standing. He was another one who could do with being locked up and the key thrown down a deep well
.

Once Ismelda was safely out of the way he would be able to pursue his own happiness and, if fate smiled on him, that happiness might have a little to do with the widow Zanelli. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, a trifle broad in the beam but still on the right side of forty, with just enough time to give him a son and heir
.

He was optimistic about his chances with the widow, particularly since he had only this morning instructed Piero to use the two Zanelli girls as models for the cherubs in his painting
.

Life was looking good. Of course, he would have to smooth the waters between Maria and his intended bride because there was some animosity between then. Women were like that, were they not? Illogical creatures falling out over the least trifle. He was sure, though, that with his finely tuned skills of tact and diplomacy all would be fine – after all, he didn’t want to gain a wife but lose the best cook in Santa Rosa. Maria would calm down in time; she’d have her hands full running around at the widow Zanelli’s beck and call. And she’d be looking after the two sweet Zanelli girls, which would surely take her mind off losing Ismelda
.

As he passed the turning to the Via Dante he wondered if Piero di Bardi had slept off his hangover and returned to his own house. He had every confidence that the man would come to his senses; he was desperate for money
.

Signor Bisotti stepped up to the door of the widow Zanelli’s house, smoothed his thinning hair and polished his front teeth with his forefinger
.

He was looking forward to an afternoon with the widow Zanelli; she really was very accommodating to his needs. He pulled back his shoulders and smiled. This afternoon he would think only of pleasant things. Temperamental artists with their gobbledygook talk about essence and aura, half-witted dwarves and badly behaved daughters one really could do without
.