2008 - Recipes for Cherubs (42 page)

“And what did you find out?”

“That the two lovebirds married and had a child, but poor Bindo was carried off in the cholera epidemic.”

“I know that, it says so on his grave.”

“What you don’t know is that Nathaniel Grieve, who was childless, married Ismelda. It was a marriage in name only, by all accounts – he was very foiward-minking, apparently, and let her live her own life – but the child, Charles, took his name, the Grieve name.”

“So I’m not really a Grieve.”

“Quite right. I expect Nathaniel was afraid the family name would die out and he saw a solution to his problems. So you’re related to both Bindo and Ismelda, which is why I was so interested in you when you were a child.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I sent you to art lessons, if you remember – expensive ones, I might add – hoping that the genes would out in the end. I wondered, you see, if I had a budding Piero as a godchild, but I was disappointed on that score.”

“What has Piero got to do with me?”

Campbell laughed. “More research, my dear, my own family research, in this case. I had access to the journals of one of my own ancestors, and in them was a deathbed confession which made very interesting reading.”

Catrin barely heard him. All she could think about was that she was related to Ismelda and Bindo.

Campbell continued, “A certain Gregorio Rimaldi, onetime priest of Santa Rosa in Italy, admitted that he had committed a dastardly deed and swapped two babies.”

“Bindo,” Catrin said. “Bindo was left in the olive jar.”

“Bindo was of no interest to me, but Ismelda Bisotti was, because she was the daughter of Piero di Bardi.”

Catrin breathed deeply, trying to clear the lightheadedness threatening to overwhelm her. That explained the paintings she’d found in Aunt Alice’s dowry box. They had a resemblance to Piero’s, but the hand that had painted them was less steady, the colour not as intense, though they were very good.

“She was a very good artist,” Catrin said. “I’ve seen some of her paintings.”

Campbell looked at her with narrowed eyes, eyes which were full of shrewd interest. “I don’t suppose you’ve found the painting of the
Feasting Cherubs?
”

“No, and I don’t think it ever will be found.” She said, glaring at him, eyes bright with anger. “You wanted to marry Aunt Alice to get your hands on
Recipes for Cherubs
,” she said coldly.

“Ah, yes the elusive book,” he said, and the cold anger in his voice made Catrin wilt. “Well, I take my hat off to you, Catrin. The ugly duckling has become an intellectual swan. Do go on.”

“But you didn’t get your hands on the book because Alice didn’t marry you.”

“Quite right, but my troubles are now at an end because I know that you have the book and I’ve come here to relieve you of it.”

“And you think I’ll give it to you and let you walk off with it, just like that?” she said, astonished.

“That’s up to you entirely.”

“And if I don’t give it to you?”

“Well, I’m sure we could arrange a little accident to someone you’re close to.”

“You scheming shit!”

“Now, now, Miss Grieve! I paid good money to have you educated as a lady.”

“You think a book is worth harming someone for?”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that. We can come to some sort of civilised arrangement. The book can be sold: there’ll be no shortage of buyers – that book will blow the art world apart. We could all take a cut. Kizzy’s money worries will be over, Shrimp’s Hotel can be restored and Tony Agosti can have the restaurant of his dreams.”

“No! You think you can have everything you want, but you can’t.”

“Can’t I?”

“That book is very special. It tells the story of people’s lives and deaths. It’s a love story, a story of hope and despair, of appetite and hunger, but most especially of hope – ”

“Bravo! How elegantly put! The nuns have done a fine job by you. But I’m not interested in love stories, Catrin, it’s art I’m interested in.”

“You look just like Father Rimaldi,” Catrin said suddenly.

“It may interest you to know that I am descended from an English duke and an Italian woman. A woman, indeed, who once lived in Santa Rosa, the widow Zanelli, who married a rather grand man.”

“Signor Bisotti!” Catrin snorted. “He was an ugly pig if ever you saw one! I’m not surprised he’s an ancestor of yours,” she said, and then giggled with nerves at her daring.

“Ah, well, you see, fate has a way of unravelling things. I am descended from the marriage of Signor Bisotti and the widow Zanelli, but it seems the widow gave out her favours rather frivolously and I believe from family stories that I am descended directly from Father Rimaldi and the widow Zanelli. Rather quirky, don’t you think, to be descended from a priest?”

“A priest
and
a murderer,” she said, her voice twisted with hatred.

Campbell had his back to the arched window above the main altar and the moonlight cast his face into eerie shadows.

Catrin’s eyes widened and she was about to scream in terror when she saw the little statue of the saint floating in the darkness behind Arthur Campbell’s head as though dark forces were at work. He noticed Catrin’s frozen stare, but before he could turn, the little saint came plummeting through the darkness and landed with a sickening thud on the back of his neck.

“Take that, you snivelling bastard,” said Aunt Ella.

1978

I
t was sweltering, a blinding sun burning down on Kilvenny, reflecting off the latticed windows of the castle. In the tall trees of Gwartney’s Wood, the rooks were silent and only the grasshoppers chirruped exhaustedly.

Up at Shrimp’s Hotel, a small girl came out of the front door and looked around in delight. All the windows were open, and brightly coloured curtains caught the breeze and billowed outwards. The thwack of a tennis ball echoed across the gardens, and someone shrieked as they jumped into the cool water of the swimming pool.

The girl sniffed and grinned. It always smelt lovely at Shrimp’s. In the kitchen they were busy making afternoon teas. She caught the tantalising aroma of the potted shrimps that were covered in a thick layer of butter and served in little brown pots. She breathed in the smell of fresh bread baking, and scones, cream horns and walnut cake.

The tables were already laid on the lawns, and soon the maids would come down from their rooms in the attic, spick and span in their black dresses and white aprons, and teaspoons would tinkle against china cups and piano music would drift out from the drawing room.

Today was a very exciting day. Mummy had said she could walk all the way down to Kilvenny on her own because she was a big girl now, nearly six.

She walked importantly across the lawns, smiling up at the coloured lights hung in the trees. When it got dark they were switched on and it made the garden look like fairyland.

She climbed slowly down the steep steps to the beach, slipped off her sandals and giggled as the warm sand trickled between her toes.

She walked to the upside-down boat and ran her fingers along the wood. It belonged to Great-great-aunt Ella and was called the
Dancing Porpoise
. Tomorrow Aunt Ella was coming all the way from Italy with her friend, and she’d promised to take her out in the boat to catch fish; that would be fun. Aunt Ella’s friend used to teach Mummy when she was a little girl; she used to be a nun, whatever that was. Grandma Grieve was coming, too, with a man friend. She wasn’t so much fun; she smelt of stinky perfume and moaned a lot.

She walked along Cockle Lane and looked in through the windows of the Photographer’s shop. She liked the pictures in there: they were of people from the olden days. The old man who lived there was the one who played the piano up at Shrimp’s.

Later, she was going to spend her pocket money in the Café Romana. She liked going in there because the bell above the door played a tune when you went in and a man called Dai jumped up from behind the counter and made you an Italian ice cream. It was the best ice cream in the whole wide world: toffee, banana, vanilla, tutti frutti – and there was even a special one named after her.

She opened the squeaky graveyard gate and tiptoed in; it was where dead people were buried. On some of the graves there were little posies of dandelions, daisies and buttercups, that Mummy put there.

She wandered back out into Cockle Lane, stretched up and peeped in through the window of the library; the old man in there had a wood named after him and was called Mr Know-it-all. He had hair like candy floss and he was nice and smiled a lot. He was in there now, fast asleep with a fat white kitten curled up on his lap. As she watched, the kitten opened one green eye and stared at her.

She listened. Someone was calling her name – two people, actually, Mummy and Grandpa Tony. He must have finished his work in the kitchen and been let out for a rest.

“Ismelda!”

“Ismelda!”

She hurried back to the beach and opened the door of the Fisherman’s Snug. Aunt Ella used to go in there when she was little, and the fishermen had taught her to swear real good. She looked around for a hiding place and crawled under the table.

If Mummy and Grandpa Tony walked right past the Fisherman’s Snug and didn’t see her, she’d creep up behind them and scare them.

She kept very still, her finger pressed against her lips like they’d learnt in school.

She felt something brush against her hair and looked up to see a spider dangling from a thread.

She watched it with interest, and then she blinked in surprise. Why would someone hide a painting under an old table?

A face was staring down at her…the face of a cheeky-looking boy with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. There was a girl, too, and a smiling woman with fat knees, a handsome boy with a small scar on his cheek.

Whoever the people in the painting were, they were dead lucky because they had wings. Gosh, she wished she had wings. Maybe she could have some one day.

Grandpa Tony always said, “
Tutto e possibile
.” For people who didn’t know Italian it meant, “Everything is possible.”

EOF