Robyn Hogan

Del holidays with friend Barbara in Southern Italy

Although they had not met for several years, the two women recognised each other immediately in the concourse beyond the customs barrier at Fiumicino Airport. They threw their arms round each other, laughing, crying, exclaiming.

‘I’ve located the gateway for the Bari flight,’ Barbara, who had arrived half an hour earlier, said and steered Del that way; the connection had become a tight one. Once on the aeroplane they had the leisure to look each other over. Del was astounded at Barb’s thinness; her face had caved in to match her silly little nose. Once Barbara had had a good sized nose but scrimped and saved that first year out of university to have it altered. No one, not Del nor Susan nor even Kevin, could see what was wrong with the one nature had bestowed on her. That is, not until the wrappings came off the new which was, as Susan had said, so petite and, seeing it, they could appreciate the depth of anguish Barbara’s natural nose had given her. Barb had been overjoyed, had carried herself with a fresh, assured confidence and been rewarded by the attention of the fabulously handsome Martin King.

‘You’ve worn well, Delma, even with your sorrows.’

‘You too,’ Del lied and was grateful for the diversion of the serving of yet another airline mini-meal. Once they were organised, she steered the talk onto Susan.

‘Susan actually suggested I holiday with you before you asked me.’

‘I know,’ Barbara nodded, ‘she’s a bit concerned about you. She’s puzzled, doesn’t understand why you haven’t picked up the pieces of your life again since Kevin, er, went.’

Del forced a smile into her voice. ‘Susie enjoys running a business and, it seems, since I haven’t returned to the university, she intends to mould me into a writing business.’ There was no need to tell Barbara that she, Del, with all her experience, felt on probation, shy of failing in the ‘real’ world.

‘That would be our Susan.’

‘And I quite like the idea.’ Del sounded confident.

‘Just be careful. Don’t let her manipulate you. Or monopolise you.’

It was easy, then, for the conversation to continue catching up on the news of other friends in common.

It was not until they were in the rented car, Barbara driving swiftly south, that their talk became personal again.

‘How is Joseph?’ Del asked.

‘All right, I suppose.’

Del could not identify the tone in Barbara’s words; she proceeded with caution. ‘Joseph was the most beautiful baby I ever saw; the most angelic looking child. Straight from a Renaissance painting. A frolicking cupid from Titian’s Worship of Venus. Or, perhaps, the Child in Michelangelo’s ‘Madonna’ sculpture; the one in Belgium where the Babe sits between the mother’s knees, not on her lap.’ She had kept talking, watching Barb’s face; there was something worrying her.

‘I guess he still is beautiful.’ Barbara spoke on a sigh, swallowed hard and continued, ‘I haven’t seen him for some months. He’s in Edinburgh.’

They drove several kilometres in silence, Barbara concentrating as she navigated round Fasano, where the road narrowed a little. ‘There is a social worker who rings me from time to time. She says it’s his good looks that gets him the money.’

Embarrassed, Del looked out the vehicle window where, in the distance, the Adriatic Sea reflected the fading light in shades of pale, luminous pink. What could she say? She could feel the pain in Barbara but also her powerlessness to help.

‘Drugs. Drugs. And Edinburgh is a good, heroin port.’ Barbara’s bitterness soured the atmosphere. ‘Drugs are the curse of this generation.’

‘Of any generation,’ Del spoke softly, wondering if Barb blamed herself, ‘remember Branwell Bronte: an inspired painter and maybe a genius destroyed by addiction?’

Barbara extended a hand from the wheel to pat Del’s thigh. ‘Thanks. You were always so non-judgemental. I think I could talk to you about him.’

Dear God! Del thought but murmured, ‘If it helps.’

‘I cut him off. I thought if I cut his money supply off he might come to his senses. And,’ she looked swiftly at Del then back to the road, ‘I felt it wrong that I was essentially working so he could buy drugs.’

‘Perhaps he’s not yet ready.’

‘Do you think there’s hope?’

‘There’s always hope. Pandora opened her box and the contents, evil and illness, poured out. Only hope remained inside.’ Then she added, a deliberate smile in her voice, an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, ‘the story does, of course, have a deeper male/female significance, an Eve factor, but that is not the point at the moment,’

‘The welfare person says he gets his money from tourists and such; at least he’s not debauched by prostitution is a little comfort. Or that’s what I choose to believe.’

‘I’m sorry.’ What else could she say?

‘She says — the social worker says — that he has memorised the prayer of St. Margaret, you know, the Scottish Queen, and recites it for the tourists. That is, on the days when he is capable of doing so. She says he looks so genuine that the money just pours into his cap. Even the bus-loads of Japanese, who can’t understand a word, crowd round him, entranced, and fill his bowl, or whatever, with cash.’

Del had no answer, no word of comfort. She felt that if she pursued the subject further she risked sounding smug about her own two children and their clean, hardworking ambitions. They drove in silence, the picture of the beautiful beggar behind their eyes. Del could not remember what had happened to Joseph’s father, the handsome Martin King, whom she and Kevin had considered a waggish rogue, and chose not to ask.

Soon the turn-off signs to Brindisi glowed bright in the gathering dusk. ‘We go through Lecce and I think we turn off at Maglie. Do you mind checking the map?’ Barbara spoke in her cool, organising, efficient tone.

Feeling relief that the subject of Joseph was apparently closed, for the time being anyway, Del reached for the glove-box, and, removing the map and torch, began to study it. Barbara had, of course, left it folded at the correct place; the area they were travelling in, Del saw with amusement, was actually off the map’s grid. ‘That seems so,’ she said. ‘How do you know of this Castro Marina?’

‘I went there with my last ex, Nigel. He’s an executive with Thomas Cook and was planning new tours. I thought the place beautiful but Nigel said it wouldn’t suit the Poms at all. Too, er, rustic I think he said it was.’

Del burst out laughing. ‘You’re last “ex”,’ she gasped through the laughter before she realised she might sound insulting.

‘Trust you to be amused.’ Barbara, to Del’s relief, did not sound upset. ‘A slap-dash good looking guy but I’ve given him the flick.’

Ah, thought Del, she’s between guys so that explains the need to holiday with me.

‘You know,’ Barbara said seriously, ‘I think my main problem has always been that I go for beauty, not substance.’

Spot on, Sweetie, but Del did not say so aloud.

They were now travelling close to the sea again and very soon Barbara had driven into a village, turned into a side street and along to a brightly lit albergo. After they had checked in Del, whose jet-lagged world, catching up with her, was ebbing and flowing round her ears; her eyes, once in the bright foyer lights, suddenly dry and gritty with fatigue, begged to go to bed, to sleep it off. She had no need of further food. Barbara, understanding, kissed her on the cheek and gently propelled her towards her room.

A bright, mid-morning sunshine gleaming beyond the bedroom, eventually woke Del. She rose and walked to the balcony door; the waters of the Adriatic Sea rolled gently in, splashing on rocks below, in front of her, and curving into a small, still bay to her left. The water flowing towards her was light emerald, transparent, gently coating the dark rocks like a fine sauce; that of the inlet bay a heavier, more stolid sheet of green. Wrapping her gown round her, she opened the door, and stepped out into the fresh, briny breeze. She squared her shoulders and inhaled deeply, clearing the mustiness of travel from her lungs. The scent was innocent and invigorating, so different to the crowded hints in the smells that wafted from Sydney harbour into her apartment. Then she noticed Barbara sitting on a rock, or a rock-like seat near a weathered sign pointing ‘To the Beach’. That it was in English and, therefore, out of place, did not occur to her just then; it was Barbara that concerned her.

She is more than plain thin, Del thought, she is wasted. Barbara turned, as if feeling Del’s eyes on her, and, waving her coffee cup, beckoned Del to join her. Quickly, Del rinsed her face, cleaned her teeth and pulled on jeans and a shirt. She found the way to the outside area and strolled along a narrow, sandy path weaving through dark, jagged rocks towards Barbara. She bent and kissed her cheek. ‘What a beautiful morning.’

‘Yes. You slept well?’

‘Wonderfully, thank you. How long have you been up?’

‘Not long. I’ve been sitting here thinking of home, of Yamba. This place reminds me so much of Yamba. I hadn’t realised until this morning but that must be why I was drawn back here.’

They were interrupted by a waiter, a bright faced, dark haired young lad, with a small tray bearing coffee with cup, milk and twists of sugar. ‘Signora?’ he gestured towards Del.

‘Grazie’. Del poured coffee into the cup and declined the accompaniments.

‘Sometimes, when a higher tide was in, the dolphins would roll on the rocks directly below the house, snorting, their bodies greasy looking. Half a dozen or so at a time. Then, as one, they would dive into the deeper water and surface out beyond the swell, teasing a fishing trawler or leaping away towards the river mouth. I never knew how far up the Clyde they would go — it is a deep, wide river — but they made the area from the sandbar at the river mouth to well up beyond the caravan park their playground. As well as the ocean.’

Del sipped her coffee. Was Barbara pining for her homeland as well as her son?

‘I wonder if there are dolphins here.’

Del laughed softly; this was easier conversational ground. ‘There used to be. Taranto, across the peninsula, was founded by a boy god riding in on a dolphin — if I have my bearings correct and my memory serves me right.’

‘Ah yes, and there was a movie too, in our youth. ‘Boy on a Dolphin’, I think it was called. The story puzzled me, even worried me, because dolphins are such huge things, big as horses, and so very frolicsome.’ She scuffled her feet in the sand, and looked up, smiling. ‘I, in my child mind, decided there were two different types of dolphins and that the Mediterranean type was for riding. I guess I thought the difference was a bit like the contrast between racehorses and Shetland ponies.’

Nodding, Del added, ‘At least you know what wild dolphins are like. I’ve never seen a dolphin outside a zoo or a statue and both situations are pretty humanised. At a guess, I’d say they could be ridden.’

‘Really, Del!’

‘Why not? So much literature and art supports the theory.’

Barbara did not reply. She was on holiday, her mind too weary to wrestle with abstracts; she knew only too well her contribution would be weak once Del began putting her case. So, sitting together, thoughts contained, the two women barely noticed as the energetic waiter collected their cups, leaving them listening to the sough of the sea.

Gradually Del took more note of her surroundings and noticed the ‘To the Beach’ sign again. ‘The beach must be round the headland,’ she wondered aloud, ‘and the English sign — was your ex being courted by the district?’

‘I wouldn’t know. But the beach is just along there,’ pointing, ‘down there in front of us. A handkerchief of sand and a deep round pool as wide as a large spa bath.’

‘Really?’ Del laughed. ‘Why did your ex., the travel agent, think the Brits wouldn’t like this place?’

Barbara flashed a wide smile at Del, the smile that had accompanied the natural nose of her youth. It surprised Del; it had long been replaced by the sedate lip movement that Barbara apparently deemed better suited to the designer job, and Del had forgotten its warmth. And how Barb’s slightly heavy features were transformed by it. ‘Travel agent’, Barbara hooted. ‘Oh, Del, you always could bring things down to size. Travel agent makes me think of a Harvey World franchise in a cubby hole off a market square.’ She rose, laughing, obviously amused by the picture. ‘Let’s walk a bit.’

They strolled across the hotel grounds and out to the roadway. ‘Not the right image?’ Del resumed their conversation.

‘Not high and mighty Nigel’s image of himself but,’ she was chuckling softly, ‘probably accurate.’

‘What happened?’ adding quickly, ‘that is, if you want to tell.’ Del felt her friend was more relaxed concerning Nigel; that it might not be a traumatic story.

‘I was tired. I’ve been tired for a while now.’ They walked across a grassy bank and up onto the footpath of the main road that wound below the high knoll that must be Castro. ‘The crunch came when I had to go to a writers’ festival at a place a little out of Nottingham. A week of talking, listening, judging. When I returned home it was evening and Nigel was sitting in front of the telly, a beer in his hand.’

‘Mmm.’ The looming, broken fortifications of Castro were becoming more obvious as they walked and Del was half listening, half dreaming.

‘It wasn’t that that annoyed me. It was the pile up of take-away bags and boxes and half-eaten pizza — the house smelt like the back end of a café. But I was so tired, crippled with tiredness, I just crawled past him and put myself to bed. When I woke, late, he had left for work. You know what I did?’

Del smiled, realising Barbara was making her concentrate as only a lecturer could. ‘What did you do?’

Barbara kicked at a stone, kicked at it again. ‘I packed all his clothes up and sent them in a taxi to his office. The locksmith came and changed the lock while I was cleaning up. The cleaning up annoyed me too; the mess wasn’t as bad as I had thought and it would have taken him no more than ten minutes. But no, he had left it for me, even after he saw how exhausted I was.’

‘Did he ever help with the housework?’

Barbara stopped walking, looked at her friend sharply. ‘No. And I hadn’t realised it until then,’ before kicking at another stone and again moving along. ‘He was so charming, suave, good-looking, I didn’t realise he was also a sponger.’

Here we go again, thought Del, looks before substance, just as she said.

‘Then I went to the doctor.’ They had reached a public transport shelter and Barbara, with a sigh, slid onto the bench seat. ‘By then I knew what was wrong with me.’

Del sat beside her, both gazing up at the bulk that was the other town, and waited. The hillside, stretching to the town, was a mosaic of colour: purple pelargoniums, red poppies, yellow marguerites, white cluster daisies frothed above the various greens of their leaves. The paler flowers of marjorams and thymes, tangled and trailing, softened the edges of rock outcrops and crevices. Minutes ticked by. Del stole a glance at her friend’s profile; anguish, cruel and cold, tightened gaunt skin. She twisted slightly and placed both hands gently on Barbara’s thigh. She felt ‘what?’ form in her throat but the word did not reach her tongue. Barbara placed a hand over Del’s, stroking gently.

‘The silicon was leaking.’

Oh no, not that too. Foolish, foolish woman. The words screamed inside Del’s head. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could murmur.

Barbara looked at her, eyes bright. ‘It’s all right for you, Del, you always had such golden melons but I sagged dreadfully after feeding Joseph.’

Ignoring the belligerent tone, deliberately reining in any retort, Del asked the question that had to be asked, ‘Are you going to be all right?’

Barbara was stroking and kneading Del’s hands where they lay on her leg; Del could feel the meatless femur beneath trembling. ‘It seems so,’ she looked up with a tight little smile, ‘I’m holding my own, so the doctor says.’ They sat together, in the shelter, backs to the ocean, watching the clouds flit behind the old cliff-top city.

‘Have you been up there?’ Del eventually broke the silence, pointing to the hill.

‘No. Not yet anyway. I think it’s a bit far to walk.’

‘Steep, too, I should think.’

‘What say, though, we get the car and go exploring? Find a little place for lunch?’ Barbara turned towards Del, concern in her eyes. ‘You must be hungry. I had quite a meal after you went to bed.’

‘That’s good’. Del meant it; if Barbara was eating then she must be on the mend. ‘I was, am, full of airline food,’ Del rubbed her abdomen, ‘seems to sit and sit — just like passengers, I suppose,’ and she chuckled at her own joke.

As they turned back down the road towards the albergo and the car, Barbara began outlining an itinerary for the next few days. Del realised the immediate excursion was but the beginning of a rather organised week. Caves and grottos; menhirs; Otranto and its cathedral where the Pantaleone floor is one of the largest mosaics in existence; the once thriving Messapian settlement of Anxa, now called Gallipoli; beaches, ruins, museums. Barbara was setting a cracking pace and Del felt breathless just listening to her. ‘And we’ll finish our stay with a slap-up lunch on Sunday at the very best eatery in Castro Marina. Monday, we leave. Or, rather, I do. You can throw yourself into your research.’

‘But the conference?’

‘A session here and there will do. The theme is not really my thing — more yours, when I come to think of it — but it provided the opportunity for this break.’

‘What is the theme?’

‘The Faking of History.’ Actually, I’ll probably limit attendance to registration and the keynote address and something major on the second day. Some mingling, too, of course. And while I am thus engaged, you can explore Otranto without me.’

It was late afternoon when they returned from the old city of Castro, Castra Minervae of the Roman maps, with its Greek and Roman beginnings, medieval and Romanesque architecture, bustling, small town centre and, from all angles, the marvellous, dominating view. A wedding was in process and, after parking the car, they strolled closer, joining in with a watching crowd. The groom, or so they assumed him to be by his formal attire, was standing in a small, green-painted dinghy at the edge of the khaki-coloured bay. A crowd, decked out in party finery, squeezed onto the grassed area between the reception house and the water. At the forefront was the bride, beautiful as only brides can be, in a magnificent long white gown, shimmering with beads and sequins, a veil frothing round her. It seemed she was meant to step into the boat, to join her husband there. A photographer, camera mounted on his shoulder, stood in a similar dinghy, his mate casually holding it still against the slight swell with an oar. But the bride was nervous. Every time she attempted to step into the boat, it would sway slightly and her veil would rise on the soft breeze. She would pull back, squealing, into the arms of her squealing, orange-gowned attendants. The men could be heard shouting, urging her on; the groom stretched his arms towards her but, even so, her courage continued to fail her. Watching, Barbara and Fidelma noted the change in attitude, particularly of the men. The groom flicked his arm in impatient gestures, the girl became increasingly distressed. Then an older man, presumably her father, took hold of her and roughly pushed her into the craft. She collapsed in a sea of white, the veil trailing over a rowlock into the water. The oarsman, who had been sitting quietly throughout the performance, face closed, leant forward and eased her onto the narrow seat while the new husband, stern and upright with anger or embarrassment, perhaps both, stood over her. Her face was damp and shining as, arms stretched, she clung to both sides of the dinghy. They could hear her saying, ‘Non, non, non’, as she shook her bowed head.

‘They don’t really expect her to stand in the jolly thing, do they?’

‘Probably,’ Barbara replied. ‘And she will as soon as she gets used to it. It’s calm, she’ll be all right.’

With that, someone gave the dinghy a hefty push out into the bay and the bride screamed and screamed as her groom spat words at her and her father bellowed from the beach. Again, it was the oarsman, clad in white T-shirt and faded jeans, one hand steadying the boat with his paddle, the other smoothing her, stroking her shoulder, who helped her regain some self-control.

‘He’s done that before,’ Del remarked, ‘supported a terrified girl.’

‘She is being quite silly. She’s not in any danger.’

‘It’s all right for you. You grew up with boats; I doubt she has. I remember the first time I stepped onto a boat — it was a harbour ferry, for God’s sake — and I was terrified. Me, who had fished and swum in rivers and dams, appreciated water as the great friend and saviour it is, suddenly felt it as an enemy. Of course,’ she laughed softly, ‘the ferry was in salt water, a completely new concept for me.’

‘But that girl, if she is local, would surely have grown up with boats as I did. Why, if she was so scared, did she agree to such staged photographs?’

By now the photographer, in the second dinghy, was standing, legs astride, working the camera lens, shooting confidently as he circled the newly weds. The girl still refused to stand but composed her features, shook her head back, obviously trying to generate worthwhile pictures for her family. In the angle of her jaw and some defiant movement of facial muscles, Del glimpsed the mature mamma this young woman would become. That man beside her would one day pay for today’s terror.

‘I doubt it is done for girls to grow up with boats. With anything too physical. Even today. It has always struck me, Italy’s pretty patriarchal.’

But your father was Italian, a voice screamed inside her, reminding her, and she looked across the bay to that strutting father, now grinning broadly, triumphantly. ‘I bet,’ Del drawled, ‘it was Babbo who decided on the water pics.’ She turned away, her mind contrasting the Italian father with the gentle Australian man who had nurtured her. She was positive Dave Dunne would never have caused her such stress; would her true father have done so? She strolled up the bank, wondering what life would have been like if Margaret Dunne had up and left her homeland for this foreign country and shuddered at her thoughts.

By the following Sunday, Barbara and Del had completed touring a grand succession of sights, monuments, castles, cathedrals, cities, towns, villages, markets. They had eaten local food: pasta, sweet mussels, grilled peppers, savoury pastries and far, far too much gelati. Homemade gelati flavoured with lemons, strawberries, melons, coffee and chocolate. And drunk the clean fresh wines, particularly the whites. Occasionally to excess. Barbara’s London complexion had changed to a warm softness, some of the old freckles visible, sprinkling across her cheek bones, and her body revealed a slight substance beneath her clothes. Del was fighting a weight gain while her mind was racing with all the possibilities the history of the land opened up for her. Was Bianca ever at Castro? Did she look out on this same stretch of ocean, beaches and bays? What might have been her thoughts?

The conference sessions Barb chose to attend expanded Del’s opportunity for dreaming as she sauntered through Otranto’s streets and monuments alone. The serene, pale beauty of the rose window and Baroque portal of the Cathedral of Santissima Annunziata contrasted sharply with the eerie, darkened crypt and its monolithic marble columns decorated with capitals bearing startling, pagan motifs. On entering the crypt, Del felt an always surprising but now familiar stab of awe: the thrust of her spirit or soul recognising an ancient holy site. Having been reared in a country where every small town had three or four Christian churches and it was a sin for a catholic to even enter another denomination’s place of worship let alone attend a service, Del had trembled greatly that first time she had passed through the massive doors of a northern hemisphere cathedral knowing it to be built on a pagan temple’s foundations. That such a juxtaposition could be tolerated amazed her in that first affront to her innocence.

Kevin had understood, had laughed at her fears, and admitted he, too, was originally surprised at his own reaction. Religion was very cut and dried in the Australia of their youth where worshippers of idols, heretics and other such riff-raff were consigned to eternal damnation along with those who associated with them. Her catholicism had been challenged; her idea of spiritualism, from that moment, a new and growing concept.

She sat for some time in the cool darkness soaking in the earthy atmosphere rich and redolent with all ages past. Also, being able to commune so peacefully was a luxury after the touristic whirlwind that was Barbara’s idea of sight-seeing. Eventually, she sought out the famous floor in the nave above.

Pantaleone’s magnificent mosaic, with all manner of stories tangled in the three sprawling trees central to its composition, could be viewed only through holes cut in the scaffolding. The monk had taken three years to lay the floor; the twentieth century was taking three times as long — or more — to restore it. But the gay enthusiasm of its images could not be stifled: Adam and Eve, sorrowful and repenting; the little bobbing box of Noah’s Ark, with animals of all shapes and colours unbothered by scale gliding and cavorting two by two; even Arthur and Guinevere, those rock stars of medieval chivalry, sparkled and winked through the restoration’s apertures. Frederick’s court had been an enthusiastic receptacle of the chivalric movement; he had written beautiful love idylls that even Dante admired. Had some been for Bianca?

Moving along, more by the crowd’s volition than her own whim, she could not prevent her shiver when, in the side chapel, Del unexpectedly met with seven tall cabinets filled with human bones. Eight hundred martyrs, Christians, resisting the invading Turkish Muslims, beheaded on the nearby Minerva Hill. Religion as jumbled in practice as the skeletons pressed against the glass doors. Add in the curve of the cramped and closed-in Jewish ghetto squeezed below and behind the splendour of the cathedral, Horace Walpole could well have set his gothic novel here rather than the castle of his imagination.

Otranto’s actual castle is mainly in ruins but Del paused amid the wildflowers and waste paper chatting with a couple of German cyclists resting there. The bay and coastline shone before them, the Albanian coast a purple smudge on the horizon. Had Bianca Lancia also taken in that view?

And so the days rushed towards Sunday. Barbara, in her usual efficient manner, had made a reservation for them for lunch. The man she had spoken to had said it was a good idea, Sunday could be crowded. Or, at least, that is what she thought he had said. But, when they arrived, they realised he had said a lot more that Barbara had not understood. The grounds in front of the usual restaurant building was covered by a huge, white marquee and, inside, were ten or twelve long trestle tables covered in bright yellow cloths and set with glittering cutlery and glassware. Between the marquee entrance and the restaurant door was a triangle of green matting and a table, covered in pale pink, set for two. ‘That’s us,’ they nodded to each other. Sitting down in the empty trattoria they were in time to be served a campari and ice before the ‘party’ or, rather, ‘parties’ arrived.

Guests filed in in large groups and Barbara and Del, their backs to the entrance, tried not to show too much curiosity as they felt the place filling up with people. Del sought a quick glimpse over her shoulder, then looked again. ‘This is too much,’ she said to Barbara, ‘it is one hell of a gathering and I’d like to sticky.’

‘Bit rude, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. I guess so. But, Barbie, they’ve these old fashioned Coke bottles, with their wired stoppers, on all the tables. It has to be home-made wine. And the girls, they are twelve or thirteen, in white dresses. It has to be a first communion day,’ she whispered, her tawny eyes bright, olive skin glowing. ‘Oh let’s, Barb, turn our table round. Face them. They can’t understand a word we say and it is all such a wonderful spectacle.’

Barbara was reluctant; the party was not of her organisation and Del, who had been steered wherever Barb wanted to go for far too long now, simply ignored her. She moved her cutlery, glass and drink across the table and, rising, carried her chair to the far side. Barbara remained for a while with her back to the people before joining her so they were both spectators at the celebration.

‘Look,’ Del said softly once Barbara was beside her again, ‘there’s one or two communicants to each table and a baby and a grandmother — and every age in between. They’re all decked in their best Sunday outfits, men and women, and that fellow there is about to get stuck into his red wine.’

The Signora beside the man in question may have heard, or, perhaps, instinct told her she was being talked about. She met Del’s eyes across the space and placed a hand on her husband’s wrist, murmuring something. He, in his turn, looked at her and raised his glass in salute. Del, ginning with mischief, lifted hers back to him. She was bubbling with an excitement she could not explain; a feeling within her marrow that she was somehow meant to be here. Then the waitress was beside them, her slight grasp of the Italian language richly laced with a Greek dialect, tested Del’s linguistic skills. She had noticed the sharp twang of something Greek, or maybe even older, in the local voices; grappling to understand this young woman was a challenge but the food she served, definitely worth the effort.

Barbara and Del had finished the splendid grilled fish which had followed the juicy, piquant platter of urdichella, (they had struggled, spooning out the flesh of the sea urchin without realising it could be turned inside out like a mango) when the owner of the trattoria paused long enough to check on them; to ask them from where they came. ‘Australia!’ they declared, pride ringing in the reply. Il Signor stood swaying and smiling as if he wanted to say something special but the words or facts eluded him. He bowed and weaved his way back into his guests.

Soon after, the noise level having become excruciating, they were discussing leaving, when Barbara declared, ‘I know that man, the one over there,’ nodding, trying not to point. Del stifled a groan. ‘He was at the conference.’ She twiddled her fingers in a refined wave and the man stood, smiled, buttoned his neat grey suit, and threaded his way towards them.

At about the same time, two women, who seemed to be a little older than Del, stopped by her. They wore simple black dresses in what looked like hand-woven linen, black stockings and shoes. Del had noticed that so many of the communicant girls, almost all of them in fact, wore dresses made to an identical pattern, probably a Vogue or McCalls, featuring a deep yoke that drew attention away from budding breasts. But the dresses differed in materials and trims; some were of shiny polyester, some coarser rayons and some were superb, slubbed linen. Del’s green cotton skirt, overblouse and open sandals seemed too casual and cheap in the presence of the black linens standing beside her.

‘She does.’

‘Yes. I agree with you. The resemblance is quite uncanny.’ They spoke in Italian, frowning, looking her up and down. ‘But Tonio said they are Australian.’

‘And what resemblance is that?’ Del asked, gauging the women, gauging their surprise at her command of their language.

At first they hesitated then, furtively prodding each other, one said, ‘You remind us of our cousins.’

‘Oh,’ Del smiled nervously.

‘They were both killed in a car accident a couple of months ago.’

‘Oh,’ she whispered, adding, ‘My sympathy.’

They nodded, continued to look at her, peering closely, as if she had given them permission.

‘More Rosa than Lilia, don’t you think?’

‘Hair is more Lilia.’

They stood back, taking stock of her again, not realising they were embarrassing and rude. ‘It’s uncanny,’ they agreed, nodded politely and returned to their table.

Del was still blinking at their audacity when an elderly woman, limping, using a stick, suddenly halted mid-stride, putting herself off balance, causing her to clutch at the table to steady herself. Her small, dark eyes peered closely into Del’s. ‘Lilia,’ she murmured, ‘or is it Rosa?’

‘Neither,’ Del spoke firmly, ‘I’m Delma.’

‘Yes,’ adding slowly, ‘Delma’. Then the old lady shook her head, her wrinkled face close to Del’s, grey whiskers spiking her chin as she stared short sightedly. ‘I don’t think I remember you, child. But the twins…’ a tear spread slowly, wending its way through the creases. A second followed. ‘You were younger, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Del murmured. These conversations were quite bizarre. To have spent her life being compared to a dead great granny was one thing but to be mistaken for two unknown Italian matrons, also dead, was quite another. And the easy acceptance that she was ‘Delma’, one of them, was really too much. Whoever they were. A shiver ran down her spine; the type that was said to mean someone had walked on your grave. There couldn’t be another Delma, could there?

Thoughts were whirling wildly through her brain as the old woman patted her shoulder with a claw like hand gnarled and blotted with age and hard work. ‘Nice girls, your sisters,’ and she turned awkwardly and tottered towards the washroom.

Beyond, a woman seemed to be waving at Del who began to raise her hand in response. The woman said something to another beside her then slammed her hand over her mouth, horror in her expression as she turned away. She looks as if she has seen a ghost, Del thought, and felt hairs again prickling along her spine.

I’ve had enough, Del told herself, trying to shake off the eerie feeling that she was meant to be at this location, at this time. That there was something important happening in her life. Right now. Shaking slightly, she turned to tell Barbara she wanted to leave but Barbara was deep in conversation with the grey-suited man. He apparently spoke some English; that they had met at the conference probably supplied the agenda. That Barbara had not introduced him to Del was not surprising; she would when she remembered his name — or was prepared to share him.

It was hard to catch her eye but eventually Del managed to signal that she wanted to leave. Barbara barely nodded as she and the man stood and, moving behind a couple of the long trestle tables, joined ‘the cousins’.

Del scrabbled to her feet, angrily clutching her handbag and fairly flew out of the marquee, up the garden steps to the roadway. Barely pausing to check the traffic, she hastily crossed the road and did not hesitate until she was well out on a rock-shelf on the east side of the bay. Breathing deeply, watching the roll of the Adriatic, blue and silver today, Del willed her body to calm, her temper to ease.

‘Hey! Hey!’ Barbara’s heels click-clacked across the rock behind her. ‘What’s got into you?’ She arrived to stand beside Del, her breath coming in gasps, perspiration beading her forehead, her make-up looking greasy.

‘I just needed out,’ Del answered shortly, before she noticed Barbara’s dishevelled appearance and concern flooded through her. ‘I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have rushed to catch me. You are not strong enough for that,’ she added gently now, stroking her friend’s shoulder and upper arm, biting back her own spiteful feelings. ‘And I left you to pay the bill. We’ll work it out back in our rooms.’

Gradually, Barbara’s breathing improved and they began walking slowly in the direction of their hotel. ‘But what got into you, Del? It was as if you were running away from demons. I was so worried I just had to follow you.’

You must have been, to tear yourself away from a man, Del thought savagely. ‘Claustrophobia,’ she lied.

‘I’ve never heard of you being claustrophobic before.’ She frowned, becoming aware that, though they had spent several days together, she knew very little of what Del was thinking at any time. Had she always been so secretive? There was the time, way back, when she had accosted Del for not telling her friends that Kevin Turner was a bachelor; a fact Del had known for most of their undergrad years. Del had merely shrugged and said she didn’t realise they needed to know. Otherwise, Del had been as open as the day was long. Barbara suddenly thought, with a jolt of guilt, of disloyalty, that something was bothering Del. It’s not surprising, she told herself, reassuring herself, Del has had a lot on her plate of late. Her, Barb’s, idea of this holiday had mainly been for Del’s sake. In such ways could she cover her insincerity.

They crossed the grassy slope and strolled on towards the albergo. Barbara knew she had to break the silence; the sooner she told Del the better. ‘Do you mind,’ she began tentatively, ‘if I go out for dinner tonight?’

Del stopped, looked at Barbara and laughed dryly, ‘Good God, Barbie, you’re a fast worker.’

‘Yes. You don’t mind? You see, he’s been to Australia so we have a bit in common.’

They mounted the steps, Del smiling, shaking her head in wonder, ‘Of course not, you silly goose. Go ahead and enjoy.’ A rush of relief flooded through her body; she could spend the evening alone, second guessing the events of lunchtime and the feelings still reeling inside her.

‘You know, Delma, you should be beginning to consider a relationship.’

‘I have. And I did. And I think I’ll stay soberly single. For a while anyway.’

‘I can imagine it’s difficult for you. You and Kevin were such a twosome and you so innocent before he took you on. And then so committed.’ Glancing archly at Del she added, ‘He’s a hard act to follow, I would think.’

Delma merely nodded as she swallowed a sudden spasm of grief.