Papa Georgio (12 page)

‘Look – ‘ Fizz pointed at a patterned grey and black moth, a bit like a knitted jumper. ‘Black Arches – it’s quite common, that one and oh,
wow
– look at that!’

I followed his excited beckoning to find a moth parked like a grounded aeroplane on the wall at the entrance to the gents’ toilets. It was tan coloured, tinted with pink.

‘Elephant Hawk Moth!’ He went up very close, his dark hair hanging round his cheeks, peering intently, in awe.

Brenda was right, I thought as I watched him, though I felt disloyal thinking it. Fizz really
was
a bit peculiar. Though he was just as lively, there was something more intense about Fizz than the last time I’d seen him. I felt cold suddenly, in the blue shadow of the toilet block, and fed up with his night-loving moths.

‘Let’s go exploring,’ I suggested.

And to my surprise, Fizz immediately agreed. He often did this, as if he was in a dream world of his own, but you could quickly wake him out of it. ‘OK. I’ll go and put the book back.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, because I wanted to see the other Chubbs.

‘Don’t bother,’ Fizz called, running off. ‘Be back in a minute.’

‘But I want to come!’

I ran down the slope after him and he didn’t see me following until he was almost at the van. He turned on me, fiercely.

‘No!
Don’t
come with me! I told you not to!’

I jerked to a halt, Fizz’s words cutting into me so hard I caught my breath. Fizz opened the door of the Ship of Dreams, flung his book inside and shut it again while I stood like a statue. I felt so rejected. Why was Fizz shutting me out of his family, when they’d been so kind before? I dragged my arm angrily across my eyes.

‘What’s up?’ Fizz said irritably.

‘Nothing.’ To my fury my voice had gone squeaky. ‘I just don’t know why I can’t come and see everyone.’

‘My Dad’s not very well, that’s all,’ Fizz said. Then, as if a door had closed in his mind, he shifted into a completely different mood, pulling on my arm, all enthusiastic.

‘Come on – let’s go!’

I cheered up immediately. This was more like the old Fizz.

We dodged round the camp, spying on people in between the caravans and tents and coloured awnings. A German lady offered us some squares of bitter chocolate and we managed to say, ‘
Danke
,’ because that’s all the German we knew apart from, ‘
Guten morgan
’ and ‘
Ein, Svei, Drei, Fier, Funf…
’

Then, on the top level of the camp we discovered a wooden gate.

‘Let’s go and see…’ I pulled it open as there was no chain to keep it closed.

‘D’you think it’s OK?’ Fizz said.

‘Course,’ I told him breezily. After all, Grandpa George seemed to wander about wherever he liked and no one ever minded.

The path led us into a grove of orange and lemon trees and looking up in the shady green, you could see a few last fruits still hanging up there among the leaves.

‘Look –’ I picked up an orange from the ground. It was ripe and not mouldy, and we shared it, deliciously bright and juicy.

We walked on until we came to a little tumbledown cottage with green shutters and peeling paint. Outside several chickens were stalking up and down, one of them a bossy looking cockerel with glossy green feathers. He looked at us as if to say, ‘What are you doing here in my kingdom?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,’ I whispered.

But then, from behind the low wall close to the house, came a low snorting noise which made us both jump.

‘What’s that?’ We started to get the giggles as we tip-toed over. The wall turned out to be the edge of a sty, and inside was the most enormous, pink, bristly pig. Her snout was wiffling around over a slimy mess of heels of bread, and cheese rinds and orange peels. When she noticed us there, her head shot up in greedy suspicion, eyes narrowed behind straw coloured lashes. Then she wiggled her nose at us and gave a loud, throaty grunt.

We both laughed.

‘Come here, pig!’ Fizz leaned over and the pig grunted again, teetering on her trotters.

‘She’s so fat! What d’you think her name is?’

Fizz considered. ‘Esmerelda.’

‘Queen Esmerelda…’ I said.

‘D’you think she likes music?’ Fizz said, hoiking his mouth organ out of his pocket. ‘Here, Queen Esmerelda, I’ll serenade you.’

He had just cupped his hands round the thing and started to play when we heard a bark behind us and a black and white dog with a feathery tail came up and sniffed at us before charging off again towards old man with a stick.

‘Oh no!’ Fizz whispered quickly putting the mouth organ away. ‘We’ll be for it now. I bet this is his house.’

The old man hobbled as far as the door of his house, apparently wearing slippers. He stopped and waved his stick at us. I thought he was angry for a moment but then he called, ‘
Giorno
!’ which was like saying hello. He had stubbly cheeks and brown watery eyes and when he smiled, you could see he had no teeth. Then he shuffled off into his cottage.

‘He didn’t seem to mind,’ I said.

But Fizz had already lost interest. He’d gone off into one of his far away moods and was staring down at Queen Esmerelda with a blank look on his face as if he had shut everything else out.

I felt like asking him if he was OK, but I could see he wasn’t and I didn’t say anything. Because though I was ashamed to admit it, I didn’t want to hear whatever it was that was making him sad. Despite everything, I wanted to carry on believing in my fairytale of the Chubbs as the ideal happy family with their bright colours and their sweets and their talking parrot. A place where no sadness was allowed.

VII.

LOG BOOK

I’m in a bad mood! I’m brimful furious with everyone. So what if Mum reads this - maybe she needs to know how I ‘m feeling once in a while. And I’ve got to tell someone or I’ll burst or go off my rocker!

I’m up at the top of the camp again in my special place where you can look out through the fence at all the cars and caravans. I can just see the Ship down there – not that anyone cares where I am or notices. They’re all
far
too busy.

And there was
nothing
at the Poste Restante! Not one measly thing. Mum’s too many miles away from anywhere up in the Himalayas to manage sending any letters. And nothing from Charlotte. Some friend!!

The Chubbs haven’t been outside for two days, except for Fizz and he was like a thundercloud and would hardly speak. I can’t knock on their door – just can’t. It’s as if there’s a sort of fence round all of them – an electric one. I saw Maggie yesterday by the wash bins rinsing out her clothes. She did her best to be friendly but her face was pale and tired. I asked if Archie is getting better, but all she did was stare down into the scummy washing water.

She said, ‘Oh I expect so.’ And, ‘Thanks for asking, darlin’.’

But she seemed so far away. She wasn’t really talking to me, not properly.

And worst of all, Grandpa George has all but
deserted
us and keeps going off on his own. He’s not bringing anything back with him - no bronzes or dogs or any other antiques to sell. Just once he brought a bottle of wine, with a funny straw thing round its bottom. And he’s gone off somewhere in his head as well. He just sits there in the evenings, outside on a deckchair with a tumbler of red wine and his pipe and stares at the sky. If I say anything to him he just says, ‘Yes, my Little Dear’ and all that sort of thing. But he’s basically
not here
, and I‘m
fed up
with it. With the whole blinking blasted lot of them!

Funny thing is, Brenda seems to get nicer all the time. We went into Sorrento together and walked the backstreets, which smell lovely, of sweet sawdust from the workshops and of fruit. We went down to the sea where there were little shops and cafes. Just when I expected Brenda would get as fed up with Grandpa as I was, she’s being all gentle and understanding, as if she can see that there’s something he’s got to do and that we’ve got to wait.

And she’s even nice to Fizz! He’s helping us get the salamander right, making lots of drawings. He says it’s very hard to get a salamander tail in the right proportion. So we’re waiting for that too. Waiting. I‘ve never been any good at waiting.

Two people who were very kind were Signora Sacchetti and her older daughter Rita.

By that afternoon Fizz had come out of the Ship and was hanging about down at the end of the bottom level of the camp, where there were no other caravans. He had his hair draped over his face like a curtain and was hurling a long bit of wood into the bushes and going to fetch it again and again. He wasn’t going to bother coming to find me obviously. As usual he was in a world of his own. I went over in the end.

‘What’re you doing?’

Fizz scowled, retrieving the piece of wood from the shrubbery again. It was like a flat, upside down coat hanger.

‘It’s a boomerang. It’s supposed to come back when you throw it.’

He threw it again. Once more it wheeled up into the air and spun round and round, landing with a crash in the bushes. We both waited as if it might suddenly get up and come whirling back of its own accord.

‘Not doing it right,’ Fizz mumbled.

I knew that if I just stood there, Fizz would keep doing it over and over again, as if he got locked into doing things and couldn’t stop and I was ready to explode if he did. I wanted him to pay attention to me.

‘Want an ice cream?’

He followed me, as usual. Sometimes I thought, if I suggested going to the moon he’d just drop everything and say OK.

We went to the camp shop for our ice creams and Rita Sacchetti slipped us one of the sugary ring doughnuts left over from the morning to share as well. Rita was twenty, and she was interested in us because she was trying to learn English. After a moment she beckoned us inside. We followed, licking our ice creams.

‘You speak me English,’ she said.

‘Ok.’ Fizz nodded politely.

Rita smiled, showing us her little white teeth, then led us along a stone flagged passage. A delicious smell floated to meet us, and soon we were in the huge kitchen at the back of the house. It was amazing. It was a great big room, full of shiny steel surfaces, with a big steel table in the middle. Strung on lines all across the kitchen were big bunches of herbs, thick sausages and white mozzarella cheeses which looked like little fat snowmen hanging from strings round their necks. And one wall was almost covered by pots, pans, knives and choppers all suspended from nails. The smell was a wonderful mixture of onions and tasty sausages, tomatoes and cheese. On the big stove at one side, two vast saucepans were sending up swirls of steam.

‘Mama –
ecco gli Inglesi
! Here are the English!’

‘Aaahh!’ Signora Sacchetti cried in welcome.

She was a huge, red-cheeked woman, wrapped in a massive white apron which was tied so tightly at the waist that she looked a bit like a mozzarella cheese herself. She was wielding a huge knife which she put down, wiped her hands on her apron and advanced on us, pinching our cheeks in enthusiasm. Italians did that a lot and it hurt rather a lot too, usually. But we smiled through the pain.

‘You see – we cook!’ Rita announced.

They seemed to want us to watch, so we did, as the Signora went to the big table on which was a marble slab. On it lay an enormous fish, and she cut open its shimmering silver belly and pulled out various lumpy bits before stuffing a large bunch of herbs inside. Rita took us to the stove and stood us in turn on a chair, to look down into a heaving mass of tomato sauce, flecked with green, which smelled truly delicious. In the other pot was simmering spaghetti water, which breathed damply into my face.

‘For
tagliatelle
,’ Rita said. ‘We make some. I show you – OK? And you speak me English.’

Fizz and I glanced at each other. We were united now and I felt better. One of the things uniting us was that we couldn’t think of a single thing to say. But as Rita rolled out a long piece of dough, very thin, then cut it expertly into strips, she fired questions at us.

‘How old you? Where you live? Have you brother or sisters?’

We tried to answer as she worked with the knife, making pasta ribbons. Fizz’s face was intent, interested. Until she started on his name.

‘Fizz? Fizz? This is no a name! Tell me your name, eh?

‘It is my name,’ he scowled.

‘No – is no a name!’ She took his face in her beefy hands and squeezed it. ‘Boy you have name – tell me!’

‘OK,’ Fizz surrendered, his face all red. Without looking at me, he said, ‘My name’s Vincent.’

‘
Aah! Vincenzo! Buono!
’ She chucked his cheek again. ‘
Molto bello
– you very beautiful boy!’

Fizz glanced at me then and I shrugged. What was all the fuss about? What was wrong with being called Vincent?

Signora Sacchetti laid the fish into a long pan. Then, from a sieve, she poured on to the slab a cascade of tiny silver fish. She looked at us watching, and laughed. Fizz and I were still holding our empty ice lolly sticks, as there was nowhere to put them. We watched her begin to sort through the fish with her beefy hands. She kept turning to us, her round red face all smiles and Fizz gradually moved closer as if he was being drawn by a magnet. She gave him a special smile and patted his arm.

‘Eh – Rita!’ She gave some order which sent Rita out of the room, returning a moment later with what looked like a pink and white tree, about the same size as her hand.

‘For you lovely one,’ she said, holding it out.

Fizz had a funny expression on his face. He stared at both the women as if he’d been hypnotized. So I took the little tree and saw that it was made of cream coloured wire and at the end of the branches were pink and white sugared almonds.