Robyn Hogan

The subject of Del’s assignment is proving elusive.

I, Bianca Lancia, met my fate this day.

We arrived, my brothers Manfred and Giordanino and I, at the new palace at Melfi, in the Kingdom of Sicily, expecting to go directly to our quarters. But the Emperor was anxious to meet with Manfred, who has accepted an important administrative role at the court, and had ordered that we be shown into his presence immediately on arrival. Normally, I would have protested that I was not fit to be seen but the Emperor’s reputation is such that I do not intend to attract his attention. I am not harem material; I am no man’s pleasure object.

Del, sitting in a hotel room in Trani, sighed, not sure that she was on the correct track at all. For two weeks, ever since she had left Barbara at Bari airport, she had been travelling around gleaning information but the result was sparse. So much of Apulia, Italy itself, is in a constant state of restoration, in restauro, with scaffolding supporting crumbling walls and the tourist, despite guidebook information, can be left unsatisfied. Not that she needed to know every little detail, Del told herself, she needed only to feel the atmosphere. Catch a whiff of the medieval scents swirling like last year’s leaves down narrow streets, through tired towns, round castles and churches, and apply her imagination. Place Bianca. Single-mindedly, Del tried to trace out her project’s life, concentrate on the twenty years Bianca had been with Frederick — if twenty there were — and avoid the distraction of other periods, other civilisations. A hard ask in a country so steeped in tantalising glimpses of the past. For instance, Manfred, Bianca’s and Frederick’s son, was born at Venosa. Did they deliberately choose the old castle there because that town was the birthplace of Horace? Would this fact auger well for the illegitimate newborn who, though they knew it not, was destined to become a king? Or did they choose Venosa because it was once Venusa of the Romans and littered with sanctuaries and shrines to Venus? Venus, goddess of love and mother of Cupid. Were they that much in love? Would exploiting this theme be a good angle for an essay on illicit love? Or, the practical side of Del suggested, was Venosa, on the road to the government seat of Melfi, simply forced on them (?her) because babes come at a time of their own determination? An expedient stop had caused little Iolanthe, Frederick’s late wife, to give birth in a place other than that planned, the castle at Andria. No, Del decided, she couldn’t use that ploy. One child born in the wrong place could be considered unlucky; to have two do so would be careless indeed.

At least pondering the many facets presented to her allowed Del to keep her own problem in the background. It seemed that, at every turn, she became involved in considering options for Bianca’s life. In the castle of Lagopesole, despite its now bleak, bare setting where once it had been buried deep in forests of oak and maple, poplar and beech, she had felt quite close to Bianca. Much of the buildings had been restored, particularly the chapel, and the wide wing of the women’s quarters was evocative; so, too, the great kitchen. Del’s entry there had been fortuitous. As with so many monuments it was closed, chiusa, but, just as Del was about to drive away, a television crew arrived with the key. She followed them in and was free to roam and fantasise. Only when she found the cameraman and the pretty young woman seated on the top of the wall, beside dangerously steep, unguarded stone stairs, eating cold pizza, obviously finished their filming, did she realise it was time for her to leave too.

Several sources said Bianca had been a frequent visitor to Lagopesole; that she and Frederick, with the hunting dogs, had sat by fires of olive wood in this ‘place of solace’. That Frederick had spent the last year of his life there with Bianca. Then, again, it was said that Bianca died at the rout of Vittoria three years earlier. Another conundrum. Also, Frederick was said to have spent the greater part of his last year at the Lancia house in Vercelli.

Where did the true story lie? Did it matter all that much for the type of work she was now writing? Del reigned her thoughts in, continued.

I am surprised that I am included in the order; in Piedmont we women do not frequent meeting halls. Pulling my travel weary cloak round me, shading my face in the hood, I followed my brothers, and could not credit my first glimpse of the man called ‘the Golden Boy of Apulia’. Hair, the colour of raw copper flopping over his ears, robe pulled up to hunting style level, he was kicking a bladder ball across the mosaic floor to a thin, dark haired toddler. The child, he would be about two, squealed with delight then, seeing us, raced towards the Emperor, falling headlong into open, welcoming arms. The Emperor held him in a secure hug before seating himself. He lifted the boy onto his knee whereupon he buried his head in the man’s chest. It was only after stroking the little head, calming the child, that the Emperor turned to us.

The great spasm of desire that shot through my being surprised me beyond belief. Surprises me even now as I sit writing. I swear by the Virgin herself that, if I am ever to conceive a child, it must be to this man.

Del had examined the only extant statue known to be of Frederick in a museum in Barletta. A pulpit carving in the cathedral of Bitonto was said to represent him and his family. Dated as 1226 it is claimed to be Frederick with his third wife, Isabella of England, and their children. But Frederick was married to Iolanthe then; their one child, Conrad, was not born until two years later. There was no dispute, however, that the Barletta bust, in surprisingly good condition, was of Frederick. He wore the garb of a Julius Caesar and, though chipped and worn, a laurel wreath curved across his brow.

She had tramped across part of the Gargano with its forests of oak, chalky cliffs and an eerie, spiritual clarity to the air, trying to get a feel for falconry. And braved the flat, wind-riven roof of the majestic Castel del Monte, for the same purpose. Was Bianca interested in hunting with birds? Frederick had been so authoritative he had written a book on the subject for Manfred; their son, a book still considered today as a bible. Del pulled herself, her thoughts, up. It could be so easy to dive into someone else’s life, the child Manfred or the husband, Frederick, and leave Bianca as less than a spectator.

Thinking of Castel del Monte brought Del back to the sense of spirituality that seemed to pervade so much of the period, the place. Castel del Monte, Frederick’s incredibly conceived building, geometrically perfect in an odd sort of way, is claimed to have been built on the site of the great, ancient, once ruler-spirits of the world. On the axis between the Great Pyramid and Stonehenge on the one line and Jerusalem and Mont Sant Michel on the other. ‘A coterie for spirits’, he had deemed it. New Age stuff indeed. An eerie, mystical building even today, it broods and beckons across the Apulian plains, the Tavoliere, captures stark sunlight and shadow within its walls and small, pale coloured birds (perhaps the souls of abandoned girl children?) fly continually through the upper storey. It had once been concealed deep in a forest of oak. The few straggling, staked, juvenile specimens ringing the great building, obviously some attempt at redressing the lack of arboreal glory, stood sad, struggling for dignity amid the coloured canopies of the souvenir stall-holders’ kiosks.

Del sighed again. Perhaps the spirituality angle might be worth developing, then shook her head, her heavy braid swinging across her shoulder blades. Bianca was a north country girl, from Vercelli midway between Turin and Milan. Surely, she would have been steeped in the rules, the dictates of the Christian bishops; it was Frederick who, while he mostly worshiped diligently enough, believed Christianity was a passing phase. Bianca would have absorbed Norman culture and traditions; Frederick’s upbringing was an eclectic mix of Norman, Arab and Greek — with pagan overlay.

Perhaps detailing the hunt, the search for the real Bianca, would be a more appropriate approach. It was all so disappointing. Del had felt that, once in Italy and particularly, this area of Italy, she would find traces of Bianca that could be worked up and into a tantalising essay. No matter how Del looked at the meagre details rising from her research, Bianca was an enigma. She had checked out libraries and church records, had even contacted the Vatican, with very poor results. The tourist brochures were a little more forthcoming but the information, put side by side, one leaflet against another, revealed a great deal of fiction. Their compilers seemed more interested in jostling for notoriety than caring about and preserving accurate history. And why not? The mighty tourist dollar is important. One of her thoughts had been to demonstrate the nurturing side of Frederick, particularly in relation to Bianca’s two children. She re-read the brief scene she had just written. The feeling was good; it reminded her of her own father. Which father? cut across her thoughts.

She rose and walked to the corner window. She had been fortunate in her choice of hotel, one facing onto the broad piazza of ancient Trani. Her room, on the first floor, looked directly at the great cathedral on its city side; the sweep of arcades, the pitch of the roof, the leering gargoyles and the tall, spired bell tower rising above an independent arch, seemed close enough to touch. Below the windows a sweep of blind arches became tall arcades along the nave. All manner of fantastic subjects sat on corbels or prowled under the eaves. And the details of the rose window of the main, western façade, above the intricately wrought doors set in a porch raised above the piazza, could be appreciated, even though out of her sight. The Hohenstaufen castle, in restauro, lay beyond, to the north, the sea washing against its east wall. Her room’s end windows looked directly out, along the breakwater, to the full expanse of ocean. It was a pleasant room, allowing her to gaze directly into the faces of gargoyles, in an albergo run by a pleasant woman. Only the bathroom was a bit of a trap: the door just grazed the bathtub when opened and Del, no fairy, had to squeeze and ooze in and out of the room. Never mind. She was living in the heart of a medieval city with a templar’s hospital, law courts, dilapidated synagogues and a waterfront, where the fishermen still plied their catch as of old.

Even so, the form of her writing evaded her. Perhaps if she knew more of the format for the proposed anthology, inspiration might come. Calling Susan was out; the time zone was inappropriate. Instead, she picked up the telephone and, when Signora, the hotel keeper, answered, requested she call Barbara’s number in London.

Barbara answered on a chirpy note. ‘You sound bright — and pleased with yourself.’

‘And why not?’ Barbara laughed in her tight manner before adding, ‘I met this fabulous guy on the flight home.’

Del felt a groan rising but managed to stifle it. She also didn’t wish to spend an international phone call learning the details of Barb’s new love life and searched frantically for a method to change the topic.

‘An absolute dish. Nice tan, good eyes, thick hair smartly grey on the temples. Likes bush rambles and fireside dinners in quaint pubs.’

‘Yes, Barb,’ and the groan escaped down the line but Barbara seemed oblivious to Del’s reaction and rattled on about Derek. She eventually paused long enough for Del to interrupt. ‘Just don’t let him move in,’ she counselled.

‘How do you stop them?’ Barbara trilled.

How indeed? Del thought, remembering how easy it had been for Barry to move in. If she hadn’t suddenly up and come to Italy she might easily be living with him still. And if she hadn’t made that decision she may have taken months to realise the violent streak that accompanied his possessiveness. ‘Just be careful.’

‘Of course. I’m an old hand at this’ and Del, sitting staring out to a glittering sea as she rubbed a pencil between her fingers, murmured in agreement. ‘Anyway,’ Barbara continued, ‘I’m glad you called. Susan wants you urgently.’

‘Does she? I did intend to ring her tonight anyway so, if she’s anxious about something, I’ll certainly make sure I do. Is it about the project, do you know?’

‘No. Something to do with your family, I think.’

A quick, nervous fear raced up Del’s throat before she realised the news could not be about the twins; she had spoken to them yesterday. They knew where to reach her. But ‘family’, what could that mean? Perhaps Barry had not moved out, was in residence in her apartment. She flushed with anger at the thought even as she settled on that as being the reason for Susan’s anxiety. And Susan was far too discreet to let even a whiff of such a situation reach Barbara.

She forced her mind away from that scene. ‘Talking of Susie, how are you going with your Wallis essay?’

‘It’s finished. On its way.’

‘Really?’ Worry coloured Del’s sighed word. If the commissioned pieces were coming in then Susie would shorten the deadline. Laura would have had her work finished before she had suggested the theme — if it was Laura who had done so. And Del couldn’t even find a satisfactory angle on her subject.

‘Piece of cake,’ Barbara continued to chatter, ‘dashed it off in a lunch time and one evening when Derek had to go somewhere with his wife.’

‘Oh, no, Barb, not a wife!’ Del could not hold the groan back nor the note of disapproval. ‘You are incorrigible!’

‘Ah, yes, but it’s fun. You are far too serious, Delma. Lighten up.’

The last thing Del wanted was a lecture from Barbara. Barbara who had been so broken and sad at the beginning of their vacation; sick, worn and weak. Dependent on her, Del, for moral and spiritual sustenance. She no longer wished to discuss her writing difficulties; in her present mood Barbara would not care anyway. ‘’Bye for now,’ Del said, replacing the handset, cutting herself off before Barbara could respond. And she didn’t care if Barbara felt miffed.

She rang down for a coffee, a long black, and, rising, roamed round the room, forcing thoughts of Barbara from her head. Forcing thoughts of Barry in her home from her head. Encouraging thoughts of Bianca. Bianca, who must also have gazed at the great cathedral beside her, warmed to the smooth, pinky-cream glow of its stone.

The Signora knocked, then puffed in with the coffee, embarrassing Del, who could have run down the stairs and collected it once she knew it was ready. She would next time, she told herself, smiling her gratitude.

‘Ah! You are working?’ the Signora placed the tiny tray on a corner of the table and Delma noticed the quick glance she gave to the laid out writing. Shortness of breath had not dimmed her desire to find out what the guest in her best room was at. Del said nothing, watching the woman take another, longer glance at her work. ‘You are a journalist, Signora Dunne?’

Del continued to smile; the woman was so very obvious. ‘Not a journalist. Just a writer. And, please, call me Delma.’

‘You speak excellent Italian. Where did you learn?’

‘At university. We have a lot of Italians living in Australia now.’

‘I have a good friend who has been to Australia.’ The woman sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Perhaps you would like to meet him?’

‘Perhaps.’ How did she get rid of this woman? ‘He is also a writer, an academic.’

Oh no, full circle, Del thought. She knew she was within walking distance of the Murat style home of Salvatore Brenna, had wafted past wondering if she would ever have the courage to enter. Now, with uncanny certainty, she felt that the same Sal Brenna was the Signora’s friend. She had yet to decide whether to contact him and she shrugged off the feeling she was losing control of her destiny.

Del gulped the last of her coffee and, placing the cup on its saucer, handed the tray back to the woman, thanking her, in a courteous but dismissive manner before adding, ‘I must telephone Australia tonight. Is that possible from this room?’ She was aware the woman closed her office quite early in the evening. While Susan would probably be in her office by six p.m., Italian time, Del could not count on it. And it was imperative she contact her as soon as possible.

‘Certainly. I will leave the switchboard ready for your call. Just dial zero and your number. There should be no problem. You will be dining with us this evening?’

It sounded more a demand than an enquiry but Del nodded, then added swiftly, ‘I want to be alone,’ she gestured, sweeping her arms over the scattered papers, inferring their importance. Please, dear God, don’t let me have to meet her friend tonight. I’m not yet ready.

‘I understand. I will give you a quiet table. Whenever you wish.’ The Signora left the room quickly, quicker than Del thought she could. Guilt swept over Del. Perhaps she had misjudged the woman; maybe she only prided herself on her service.

Del sat again at the table-come-desk, pulled the writing pad closer and began a map of Bianca’s life — as she knew it so far. Separated into highs and lows. A high when she arrived at Melfi and met Frederick, rising to a peak when Manfred was born two years later. Another two years to daughter Constance’s birth. But that year, 1234, there was also the low Del could attribute to the arrangement for Frederick to marry Isabella of England. And would Bianca have plumbed the depths in July the following year when the beautiful Isabella became his bride? Would she have felt a bit smug when Isabella’s first child was female? And disappointed when the second child was male? Did she have any influence in Frederick’s life? Could Del portray her as the love of his life? Did Frederick actually marry her? If he did, and it is suggested that he might have, then she, Del, had proof of a deep commitment. For a ruler who placed his children, both legitimate and illegitimate, in strong, political marriages, to bind himself to a commoner without influence had to be a very personal declaration of love.

There was so much conjecture in the story as it stood.

The Angelus rang out from the campanile. Del waited fifteen minutes, watching the fishing boats returning to port along the breakwater and the silky darkness drifting over the sea. Then she dialed Susan’s number.

Jodie, Susan’s personal assistant, put Del’s call straight through to Susan.

‘Well, at last! Your sister, your sister is feral! Absolutely feral!’

Del cringed. Although Susan, particularly in her executive mode, frequently dived directly into a conversation without greeting, this onslaught sounded most unfriendly. Even the time space the satellite transmission allowed for her to digest the complaint was too short. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered down the line, tempted to terminate the conversation before it had begun.

‘You didn’t tell her you were going away. Going overseas.’

‘It’s not really any business of hers.’

‘You tell her that.’

‘How did she find out?’

‘Through your boyfriend, I gather.’ Susan sounded slightly friendlier.

Bloody Barry, Del thought, feeling anger and embarrassment almost in equal proportions rising in her chest. But why had Anne involved Susan? ‘I see,’ she said, understanding nothing.

‘Yes. No, Del, forget your sister, I’ll begin again.’ Her tone was softer, more caring. ‘It’s about Kevin’s parents. Del, I’m sorry. They are both dead.’

‘Oh.’ She saw them again, holding hands and howling at Kevin’s funeral. ‘What happened, do you know?’

‘Well, I think I’ve patched the story together. Are you there?’ she called.

‘Yes, yes. Go on.’

‘The first messages on your machine were from Mister. Norman. His wife had had a heart attack and was in hospital. The next, she had passed away. Then he rang telling you about the funeral arrangements. I’m sorry, Del, I didn’t get these messages until too late. I don’t check your apartment every day.’

‘Of course not. I didn’t, and don’t, expect you to. Poor old sod. But — you said they were both dead.’

‘Yes. When I cleared your messages there was also one from his solicitor. Norman had gone home from the funeral, sat down by the stove, and died too. Heart attack again.’

All that milk. Del had a vivid picture of Norman, slouched in the worn old leather chair that was his, horsehair stuffing oozing from the cushion, all life’s purpose drained from a face and body. A blessing really; he could not have gone on without Norma. Although they had sold up the farm they had lingered on in the old house unable to decide about which nursing home where; not caring to make the decision. And, as the new owner was not pushing them out, they continued to procrastinate. Del had let them take their time; she would help them when they were ready to move. Now she gulped back tears.

‘Thanks, Susie. Thanks for caring. I guess that’s why you had contact with Anne.’

‘Oh no. Anne knew I published your work and she wanted to know where you were. In capital letters. Was it true that you had left the country?’

A soft giggle escaped Del. Susan’s version sounded so like Anne’s usual attitude. ‘She doesn’t own me, Suse, and the sooner she realises that the better for both of us. I regret you had to bear the brunt of her self-righteousness.’

‘And that’s not all. Can you take more?’

Fiddling with the tail of her shirt, rolling the thin hem up and down between her fingers, Del took a deep breath, not caring that Susan could probably hear it. ‘If I have to.’

‘Your brother and his wife have split up.’

Del started to laugh, a slight note of hysteria creeping in. ‘Really?’

‘Something to do with his wife taking your mother’s pearls. Last straw sort of thing. So it seems he has up and taken himself back to the bush. Talking of buying himself a farm. Anne is beside herself about that too. Seems to think you caused the rift, should be involved.’

‘Oh no. Del’s giving this one a miss. I didn’t want the bloody pearls. And no one consulted me when they sold out after Dad’s death. They are on their own as far as sister Del is concerned.’ She was no longer embarrassed, just angry.

‘Good for you. And now, as they say, for the good news.’

‘There is?’

‘I contacted Norman’s solicitor — he’d left his number — and, it seems your twins have inherited. I gave him their address. I hope that was all right.’

‘Most definitely. Isn’t that nice for my girls? Dear old souls, they worked so hard, but my girls will be grateful.’ She could see the mixture of sadness and delight that would light up their faces at the news. She needed to tell them herself; they obviously had not known yesterday. She had no doubt they would feel a greater sense of loss for Kevin’s parents than for Margaret Dunne. Maggie had always seemed to treat the girls as sinners — Del now knew who the sinner was.

This had certainly been a news filled call and she, Del, had not yet broached the work purpose reason behind it.

‘Changing subject, Suse. I understand Barb has finished her piece for the anthology.’

‘Yes. It’s arrived. Slick and shining and totally lacking in substance. Pure Barbara.’

You said it, Del stifled the thought.

‘And Laura’s was, as you are probably aware, first in. Turgid, teeming with facts and figures but some meat in there. How’s it going with you?’

‘Not. I can’t seem to garner sufficient information to create an angle.’

‘Well, keep trying. I’m relying on you for easy-reading depth.’

Del felt her stomach drop. She rubbed her thumb rapidly over a corner of her writing pad then began folding it up between index finger and thumb. ‘It’s just not working.’ She forced the words out, her air of defeat almost tearful.

‘Look, Sweetie, you’ve had a helluva time the last half hour. Pour yourself a fresh glass of white — it is evening there, isn’t it? — and let the news roll over you. Then, after you have talked to the twins, you’ll come back to it with a fresh face.’

‘I doubt if wine or talk will help me out.’ Why wouldn’t Susan offer to call it quits?

‘And there’s that guy, the professor guy Barbara said you’d met. Isn’t he a font of knowledge? Have you looked him up?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, do so. Actually,’ Susan’s tone sharpened, ‘I don’t understand why you haven’t pumped him dry by now. It’s not like you to leave any source untapped and I know,’ there was a tease in her tone, ‘you aren’t man-shy.’

Even though Del recognised the tease, could allow a friend as good as Susan to take some liberties, she was stung by the idea she might be shirking. She bit back with a half-lie. ‘I have made contact; the landlady is a close friend.’

‘Good. You can, though, forget the other project — for the time being anyway. With your contribution I’ll have enough for the first edition. But I definitely need yours. No buts. Bite the bullet, as they say. ’Bye for now’ and the line went dead.

Susie didn’t mean to be rude, Del assured herself as she replaced her handset; Susan always ends business calls abruptly. The beginning of their conversation might have been personal but the conclusion was definitely a publisher pulling a recalcitrant writer into line. Del wished vehemently that bloody Barbara had kept some things to herself. She would have to arrange a meeting with Sal Brenna; there could be no further procrastination.

A faint, pungent smell of charcoal cooking crept into the room and Del became aware she was hungry. Unbraiding her hair, she brushed and clipped it back to hang free down her back, and, pocketing her wallet, strolled down the stairs in search of dinner. The Signora was waiting for her, cheerfully leading her to a corner table, waving her arms at the display of anti-pasto, inviting her to help herself.

An Aladdin’s cave of tasty, tempting dishes stretched before her. Red and green capsicums, charcoal grilled, sliced and doused in the sharp local olive oil; or capsicums stuffed and folded; dried tomatoes plain or garnished with anchovies; polipetti, baby octopuses, raw and curled in marinade, or fried and doused in tomato, garlic and origano; minute fish cooked with olive oil and onions (ciambotto); at least three ricotta cheese offerings; sweet mussels marinated or else tossed into orecchiette, ‘little ears’, the typical pasta of Apulia or baked on a half shell and topped with breadcrumbs, parsley and garlic. And olives, olives, olives.

Del, plate in hand, cruised along selecting a little here, a little there and added, though she knew she should not, a slice of cruschill, toasted whole wheat bread brushed with garlic and sprinkled with salt and olive oil. To compensate, she took a spoonful of sinepi, boiled green mustard dressed with oil.

Returning to her table she found the Signora had provided a colourful jug of wine. As she poured Del a glass she told her it was from the family’s own vineyard, own vintage. Perhaps Del would like to visit one day if she had time from her work? Del felt herself relax in such obviously natural hospitality before a cruel pang of mourning, yearning, for Kevin shot through her. He should have been here with her.

The Signora placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right, cara?’

‘Si, si, of course,’ Del recovered quickly, adding by way of explanation, ‘I’ve been working rather hard.’

‘And you made your call to Australia about your work?’

‘Yes. One of them.’ Del could not decide whether she wanted this woman’s sympathy, whether she wasn’t better off coping alone, but the woman was persistent; persistent beyond the call of duty, surely. Del tried to take charge. ‘I’d like a small, whole fish grilled, to follow this.’ She waved towards her plate, a gesture, even as she did it, she knew her mother would have frowned on. ‘Plain. With just a little sliced tomato on the side.’

‘And parsley, origano and a dash of oil, Delma,’ the Signora said and sat herself on the other chair, opposite Del.

Will no one rid me of this woman?

‘If that is what you recommend.’ Del was trying to be polite but also aching to be alone.

The Signora drew an obscure pattern on the tablecloth with her thumbnail. She’s nervous — or something — thought Del.

‘Two friends of mine, twins, were killed in a car accident a few weeks ago.’

‘I’m sorry. You are missing them?’ Del hated the hypocrisy in her reply. Being loaded with someone else’s grief was not Del’s idea of a night out, even if the woman was her host.

The Signora took a deep, noisy breath. Her shelf of a chest, clad in the inevitable black, heaved before Del’s eyes. ‘You look like my friends.’ The woman put her elbows on the table, both hands under her chin and, rocking slightly, watched Del.

Del swallowed hard on the mussel in her mouth. My god! It’s the cousins again, she thought. Why didn’t they belong to Otranto or Castro; why were they known in Trani? ‘I’m sorry, Signora,’ she murmured.

‘The friend, the friend I mentioned to you this afternoon, they were his sisters.’

‘I’m sorry. Mi dispiace’

‘It’s uncanny, you know. You all the way from Australia and looking so like Lilia and Rosa. I’ll have to tell Sal, but I don’t really know how to.’

‘You have to tell him what?’

‘About you looking so like the twins.’ She reached up her sleeve, drew out a white handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. ‘But I don’t know how.’

‘Then don’t. Any resemblance is only in your mind, Signora,’ Del was dissembling, distracting the woman.

‘Call me Francesca.’ Del smiled politely, acknowledging the privilege.

Francesca. A decided improvement on Signora if they were to enjoy this close a relationship.

‘Sal went to Australia once.’

Oh dear. Here goes. ‘You mentioned that. Did he enjoy his visit?’

‘I think so.’ She leant forward, closer to Del’s face, her brown eyes focussed directly into Del’s tawny ones. ‘I think he fell in love there.’ She leant back, chin jutting. ‘Never was the same after he returned. Never married, you know. A shame. He would have made a wonderful father.’

‘Oh.’ Del picked up a fork and rather pointedly began fiddling with the delicacies on her plate.

Francesca sat a few more moments while Del tried, casually, to force the food down a dry, aching gullet, then seemed to recover her bearings. ‘Sorry, cara, I’ll go order your fish,’ and she patted Del’s hand in farewell.

The fish was a long time in coming and Del had the feeling that the Signora, Francesca, had been weeping too much to pass the order to her chef. Or did she do the cooking herself? In any event, the restaurant became quite crowded and included a noisy demanding American tour group, and, when Del had finished her meal, she walked directly out onto the street and strolled along the waterfront, letting the cool salt-scented night air freshen her.

She would have to brave a call to Anne; perhaps another to Davy. Courage, Del. Bite the bullet. Reluctantly, she turned back to her room.