A Natural Curiosity (41 page)

‘Look,’ she says, ‘do look. I thought they were great silver eagles.’

And there, across the lake, beneath the steep mountain, hang great men-birds, hovering motionless in the bright air, against the falling forests of deep green. Liz watches, hands the glasses on to Alix, Alix watches.

‘Icarus,’ says Alix. The flights of Icarus.’

The afternoon wears itself away towards evening. They walk along the lake shore, the picturesque idyll to one side of them, and heaps of characteristic Italian speculative building rubble to the other. They pick their way over bricks, exposed pipes, unfinished draining systems, and a dry river bed, they walk past back gardens with rabbits in cages and nodding sunflowers, and find themselves in a small cemetery where the dead stare gravely at them from silver-framed photographs amongst bulbous dust-whitened plastic flowers. The blue butterfly is still with them. It settles on Esther’s grey-blue hair.

‘Amazing,’ says Esther, staring with admiration at the tragic kitsch.

Esther has decided not to marry Robert Oxenholme. Well, she thinks she has decided not to marry him. She has not told him yet. She has not mentioned the proposal to Liz and Alix. She has decided that she is better on her own. She has decided to leave Elena Volpe. Now, standing there in the marble-chip-gleaming cemetery, she suddenly says: ‘I’m coming back to London. I’m going to buy a flat. In London. That’s the plan.’

Esther’s parents have recently died, and have left her money. She can now afford to buy a flat. Not a nice flat, in a nice district, but a flat.

Liz and Alix express their satisfaction at this decision. They all three wander back toward their hired Renault, talking of England and its prospects, of the approaching June election, of the way the wind blows.

‘England’s not a bad country,’ says Liz, as they get into the car, to drive towards Pallanza.

‘No,’ says Alix. ‘No.’ The lake glitters, the mountains soar, the coloured sails catch the evening sun, and the shadows of the Lombard poplars are long. ‘No,’ says Alix, ‘England’s not a bad country. It’s just a mean, cold, ugly, divided, tired, clapped-out post-imperial post-industrial slag-heap covered in polystyrene hamburger cartons. It’s not a bad country at all. I love it.’

And they laugh—what else can they do?—as Liz drives off towards Pallanza, where an old woman waits for them on her terrace, amidst lichen-gilded baroque statues, and dark carved hedges. White peacocks stray on an emerald lawn beneath a spreading cedar. A fountain plays, its waters tumbling from an upheld shell. A frog croaks, the midges hum and lightly whine. The white azaleas and the white lilac cluster. The old woman’s spectacles are folded before her on the wrought-iron table. She does not need them to gaze at her splendid view, her historic view of garden and lake. She is far-sighted now, she can see into the past and the future.

And the present she enjoys. She is looking forward to receiving her guests. She does not receive many visitors these days.

She is looking forward to the bottle of champagne that will be opened for them. She is looking forward to showing them her treasures. She is too old now to take them round the garden herself, but Robert Oxenholme will escort them. Robert Oxenholme will open the champagne. Dear Robert is good at these things. That is what he is for. There he sits, dear boy, at the far end of the terrace, reading the evening paper, smoking a little cigar to keep away the insects, as he waits to receive the three unknown women from England. He has been trying to persuade her to leave some of her treasures to the National Gallery. She has been elusive. She has been stringing him along. ‘What has England done for me?’ she has asked him. They are old friends, Robert Oxenholme and the Queen of Novara.

The old woman smiles and nods to herself. A blue butterfly settles on her folded spectacles. Life is still pleasant. She has wit and power and she owns beauty. The white peacocks strut and flaunt. The scent of lavender fills the evening air, blending with the blue smoke of the little cigar. She is filled with pleasurable anticipation as she hears the wheels of the hired Renault crunch along the gravel drive.

M
ARGARET
D
RABBLE
is the author of
The Sea Lady, The Seven Sisters, The Peppered Moth,
and
The Needle’s Eye,
among other novels. For her contributions to contemporary English literature, she was made a Dame of the British Empire in 2008.