Samuel had lain a long time in bed reading while Lara had been cooking in the kitchen. He’d smelled the frying onion and garlic, heard the chopping of vegetables and the bang of the soup pot lid. He’d taken his time getting up, feeling weary for no reason that he could pinpoint other than age. But at last he’d forced himself into action.
The temperature had dropped today, the bathroom tiles cold under his feet, and he’d pulled out his good slippers. They’d been a lucky find at the piazza markets a couple of years ago, stylish, in a buffed charcoal grey. Assunta would have hated them and teased him for being such an old man. If it were up to her, she’d have had him in something outrageous with bloody bells or tassels. But he liked these ones; they made him feel smart when he had his feet up on the footrest in front of the fireplace. He liked looking down at them, liked the way the skin around his ankles was still smooth, if a little blotchy.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the markets unattended. He’d been sharing his space with badanti for such a long time, and had grown to need their help to get out and about more than he’d ever imagined. You could never predict what you’d go through as an old person, what you had to do simply to keep living from day to day. If you were lucky, you had someone who loved you to look after you. Like Rocco had.
Rocco had been old when they’d got him, which made him perfect for the kids. He was unflappable, safe, slow and steady. Exactly what you wanted in a first pony for your children. But as happens to ponies, his children grew up. And then Lily was gone. Samuel and Assunta argued about what to do with Rocco, Assunta insisting he was too old to sell and Samuel saying it was a waste of money to keep a pony no one was using. If they couldn’t find him another home, they should call the slaughterman to come and take him away. But Assunta refused, more than once literally putting her foot down in a stomping rejection. She was fiercely protective of Rocco and said he deserved to live out his days with his family. He was a living link to their beloved daughter. By pouring love into Rocco—carrying food and water to him when he couldn’t walk easily—Assunta could keep loving Lily.
That was what Samuel wanted, deep down, for himself. Assunta by his side, caring for him till the end. But Assunta was gone. So if not Assunta, then who? His daughter Giovanna? Perhaps, if things had worked out differently.
He walked into the dining room where Lara was seated at the table, her head resting on her forearms. A plate of orange blossom amaretti sat in the centre of the table, golden and fragrant. Lara must have been cooking up a storm while he’d been reading. She looked up as he approached, surprise on her face. The sight of her wet, red eyes snapped him out of his reverie.
‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she snuffled, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist the aromas from the kitchen. Is it soup?’
‘It’s my version of a Tuscan white bean soup,’ she said quietly, then bit her quivering bottom lip.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked, without a clue what to do.
She nodded, staring at him a bit too hard, her eyes fixed a bit too wide. Suddenly, Samuel was a father again of daughters—Italian daughters at that—who cried and screamed at the drop of a hat, whose emotions were only ever just under the surface at any time. Back then, he’d learned not to try to solve the problem right away. Later, maybe, over a coffee or a vino. But while there were tears he’d found the fewer words the better. He always said the wrong thing anyway, especially with Giovanna, and her tears would turn to rage as she declared that he never understood her. If the house hadn’t been made of stone, he’d have worried for the walls from all the door-slamming.
Giovanna was probably right; he hadn’t understood her and hadn’t really tried to. He’d been a stern father, if he was honest, and hadn’t paid half as much attention to his children as he now wished he had. His relationships with them had always been strained, and sometimes he wondered if Giovanna and Gaetano had stayed in London simply to avoid him. Back when they were growing up, times were different. Men worked; women took care of the children. But he’d missed out on so much. He knew that now.
Samuel looked to the floor and scratched behind his ear, sighing with the memory.
‘Last night, I visited Matteo,’ Lara began, sniffing disconcertingly. She paused and searched her pockets, for a tissue, he assumed; when she couldn’t find one, she wiped her forearm across her nose. Samuel winced and swapped the walking stick to his left hand, holding it loosely through the mouldable splint, and reached into the pocket of his trackpants for a handkerchief. He always had one. Years ago they would have all been ironed, but now he let a few things slide. He swapped the walking stick back to his right hand so he could rest his weight on it, and stepped towards Lara, extending his clean blue hanky. She hesitated, but then reached over and took it.
‘Thanks.’ She blew her nose, noisily, then balled up the material in her fist.
Samuel hovered uncertainly for a moment, wondering if he should sit at the table with her. It wasn’t easy for him to stand still in one spot; it was easier to keep moving forward. But he didn’t want to put pressure on her, either. Finally, as her eyes welled again, he pulled out a chair and sat.
Lara slumped back in the chair, defeated by the tears that just wanted to flow.
‘There were wolves,’ she said, her voice small and pinched on the last word.
Samuel stiffened. ‘Wolves?’
She nodded, blowing her nose again. ‘They came for the goats.’
Samuel’s stomach plummeted. He turned his head towards the window in the direction of Meg and Willow’s barn, even though he couldn’t see them. He immediately began thinking of ways to improve the security of their housing. He’d need help. He couldn’t wield a hammer anymore. Once upon a time, Carlo would have come and done it with him. Now, he’d need Matteo. Or, if Matteo couldn’t help, then Henrik. He could pay Henrik. He had a little money set aside for home maintenance. He was old enough to remember the destruction wolves caused to livestock, back before the widescale trapping.
‘They tried to shoot them,’ Lara squeaked, dissolving into sobs.
‘Of course they did; they had to protect the goats,’ he said gruffly.
Lara gave him the look, the same look Giovanna would have given him. He’d misinterpreted her feelings. He rubbed his forehead. She’d shut down now, holding back her tears and folding her arms across her body, looking to the other side of the room, her chin lifted.
He tried again. ‘Look, people here in Italy, they are very much at one with the land. People still raise their own animals, tend to them from birth through to death and the dinner table. They work with the seasons and hunt for boar, pheasants and rabbits. Food is their way of life. Men are part of the ecosystem and, like it or not, sometimes other predators get in the way.’
Lara was looking at him as if he was deliberately trying to cause her more pain.
‘It’s harsh, but that’s the reality of farming,’ he said, trying to be reasonable. ‘They can’t let their stock be taken.’
‘But Matteo.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought he was different.’
‘He has a job to do, and that’s to protect his stock. End of story.’
But reason wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Her breath shuddered as she pushed herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Samuel, but this isn’t the place for me. I’m going back to Rome.’ Then she rushed from the room.