I finally called Giulio and asked him to come and give Lizzie a check-up. Her leg was now well in place and we agreed it was time for her to return to her colony in Castelmola. The problem was how to get her into a carrying basket; she had no notion that we were trying to help her and retreated to her usual hiding place under the bed. We were forced to poke her out with a stick. At this she went wild, dashing from cover to cover and finally throwing herself against the open window, almost breaking the mosquito netting. At any moment she would be through and there was nothing to stop her falling many feet onto the garden below. Fortunately, Giulio clad in those strong gauntlets managed to grab her and unceremoniously stuff her into the basket.
As the car wound up the now familiar steep roads to the little village, I gazed out of the car window with a sense of nostalgia. I looked back to that day Andrew and I had discovered Lizzie and the weeks that followed, sharing her recovery. I’d become attached to my little waif and now I had to let go. My stay in Taormina was almost at an end; once I had deposited this small cat, only a few days remained before I returned to England. I felt altered by the experience, already beginning to view Sicily with a different eye.
We found her street without difficulty this time and, setting the basket on the place where Andrew and I first saw her, opened the door and stepped back. Lizzie shot out, hesitated for a moment and then dashed away.
‘Not even a thank you,’ I said.
‘You don’t need one,’ Giulio remarked. ‘Look what you’ve done for her. Shall we go?’
But I felt I couldn’t leave it at that: I told him I would stay there in Castelmola for a while and return by bus. We shook hands.
‘Thank you.’
He gave me his amused smile. ‘It was a pleasure, Jenny. Call me the next time you are in Taormina.’
I watched him go, swinging the basket. There was no sign of Lizzie. Giulio was right: I’d completed my mission and she was back where she belonged. Maybe I’d go back to Taormina and have a few hours on the beach. Behind me, a door opened and a slender woman wearing a flowery pinafore stood there. She spoke to me in Italian.
‘So it was you who took that poor cat to the vet? She is part of the colony I feed. I looked for her and wondered where she had gone.’ She held out her hand. ‘I am Antonella. Please come in, I would like to offer you coffee.’
Another cat lady! I followed her up a flight of stairs and into the salotta. The room was not large but was full of dark and heavy antique furniture. There was a big sideboard crowded with photographs, some of the family and many more of Jesus and Mary. A red velour cloth covered the long table, surrounded by a lot of chairs.
The room had a sense of an old-fashioned parlour, rarely used. Antonella brought small cups of black coffee and a plate of almond biscuits. I sensed a melancholy about her and her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
‘I don’t often sit in here, only when the family visits.’
As I wondered how seldom that might be, I made a pretence of sipping the coffee, wickedly black and strong. Yuck! Sicilians have a lethal relationship with caffeine. Not just a beverage, it is more like a constant companion. They find a way to enjoy a coffee on many occasions throughout the day. It might be meeting a friend for coffee, having a coffee for breakfast, one during a break at work, after lunch or after dinner. ‘Vuole un caffe?’ – it is seen as rude not to accept the offer. There is a short story about a man who did the rounds of his Sicilian relatives and politely accepted their offer of coffee. He ended up drinking ten dark espressos and nearly had a caffeine-induced heart attack!
After a while we moved into the kitchen, hung with bunches of oregano picked from the country. It is fashionable in Britain to forage, though we used to just call it ‘picking’, but the Sicilians have been doing it for a long, long time. Nature offers a bounty free for the taking. In summer and autumn they pick thyme and mint, stock up on fennel seeds. From November to April, it’s the season of foraging for wild greens: borage, bitter chicory, mustard tops, feathery fennel, wild asparagus and prickly nettles. Most of these greens are eaten simply steamed and dressed with olive oil. They’re also used in salads and the pasta dish bucatini with wild greens and ricotta cheese.
Antonella wanted to show me how she prepared peppers, aubergines and pepperoncini in oil. Often served as part of an antipasto, they are not one of my favourites. But I sampled what she put on a plate and told her it was very good. I suspected that Antonella was one of those housewives who make their own pasta sauce using fresh local tomatoes. It would simmer for hours and probably be served at midday. Lunch is traditionally the most important meal in Sicily. Most shops close for the pausa pranzo, the lunch break between 13.00 and 16.00 hours. Typically, it consists of a first course (pasta, rice or similar), a second course (meat, fish or vegetables) and fruit.
Suddenly, all this talk of food took a different turn. Antonella’s longing to confide was almost tangible.
‘I have suffered a lot and sometimes I feel my only reason for being alive is the cats. They rely on me, you see. My husband was an alcoholic but he was told he shouldn’t touch another drop.’ She shrugged. ‘I think when he goes out he does drink. And he smokes. How I hate the smell of smoke! I make him stand on the balcony.’
I gazed round the immaculate kitchen with everything in its place. But there was no soul about it and this woman seemed very lonely.
‘We all used to live in this house,’ she continued, ‘the children, my mother. When Mamma died and I was out, my husband threw away all the photographs of her. He destroyed some of her furniture, too.’
I sat in silence and listened as all this came pouring out. It was as if she had never had anyone to tell before. Her eyes shone, as she stared around the kitchen. She seemed like a caged animal yearning to be free and to live. At last she was silent.
‘Tell me about the cats,’ I prompted.
‘Ah, the cats!’ she smiled. ‘They are my babies. When I go out into the street with food they all come running. The grey cat is your cat’s mother and the other black and white one, her sister. I have fed them since they were kittens. Poor beasts, so many people here dislike them and wish them harm. But what have they done? All they want is a bit of affection and enough food to eat.’
She paused and eyed me curiously. ‘You paid the vet to treat that cat?’
I nodded.
‘It must have cost a lot of money.’
I named the sum.
She shook her head. ‘That was very good of you.’
‘I can’t bear to see anything suffering,’ I replied. ‘Someone had to help her.’
Antonella’s gaze went to the crucifix hanging on the wall. ‘I too cannot bear suffering,’ she said.
A few days before I left for England I went back to Castelmola. I took the path that I now knew so well and there was Lizzie coming towards me. I opened a tin of Whiskas and she began to eat it. Then her mother, the pretty grey cat, arrived and tucked in. As I stroked Lizzie and took some photographs, I felt so happy. My little one could now lie and enjoy the sunshine. Her leg might never be the same again, but she was home with her mother and sister. I felt so glad I had restored her. Giulio had been right: she was returned to her world but there was a part of her that I liked to think remembered me, affectionate in her own way. All I could do now was pray she would be safe.
A woman approached with a rather strange-looking dog on a lead. The tips of its ears were missing and its coat was bald in places. She caught my gaze and shrugged. ‘This dog could have been a signor,’ she said, ‘but he was badly treated when he was younger and so he is what he is.’
I told her about Lizzie and she said she believed that people who do not like animals like nothing in this world. She moved on. Then I caught sight of the young man who had helped me to find Giulio that afternoon.
He smiled broadly. ‘I thought I heard you return that night to look for her, I saw the light of your torch. I am happy she is well.’
The sun shone down onto that little road and I stayed with Lizzie another half-hour. Those weeks in the apartment had somewhat tamed her and, now she was returned to her small domain, she allowed me to stroke her. I made to leave but came back again – I didn’t want to go. In the end it was she who got up and strolled away down those steps, oblivious to the pain of my parting from her.
‘Goodbye, Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Take care of yourself.’
There were tears in my eyes as I walked away.