Robyn Hogan

Del seeks advice
‘Ah, yes,’ Del murmured, pleased she had left the annotation for herself and pulled her research notes closer, seeking names for the other dinner guests. She was stimulated, could now write with confidence and keep her own problems at bay. Her concentration was excellent though, gradually, she became aware that the chimes from across the piazza were lengthening. At ten, she looked up. From some part of her mind she realised she had decided to call both Hazel and Susie, discuss her dilemma with both of them.

She rose, worked her shoulders, loosening them a little and went down the stairs; Francesca was moving round her little office, closing up.

‘Aha! You have been asleep?’

‘No, Francesca. Working.’

‘You are working without eating?’

‘I had a big lunch. And I was so busy I didn’t notice the time.’ Although true, Del felt she was gushing and raced on. ‘I want to telephone Australia again tonight. Is that possible?’

Francesca stood still, smiling in a knowing sort of way. ‘So, you want to tell your family about your meeting with Salvatore and Silvia?’

She’s going to listen in, Del thought.

‘You want to call them now.’ Francesca turned, inserted a key in the switchboard.

‘Not now. It’s too early,’ Del lied. ‘I can see you have finished for the day, so can you just link me through as you did last time?’

‘Certainly,’ Francesca nodded.

‘Grazie, thank you. That’s very kind of you, Francesca. You are sure it’s no trouble?’

‘No trouble.’ She fiddled with the switchboard and Del heard the handset in her room tingle briefly. Then Francesca bent below the counter and, straightening, placed a plate of antipasto, together with a small jug of wine on the counter. ‘For you. Until it is time to make your call.’

‘Thank you, Francesca, that’s so kind.’ Del bowed her head, overcome, as she eyed the collection of shining olives, soft mixed vegetables, pickled anchovy and a cube of scamorze, sheep’s milk cheese, all scattered with fresh basil. She felt mean for ever having thought the Italian hotel keeper would eavesdrop. Of course, the snack would be on her bill, but the gesture was gracious.

‘I will carry it up for you.’

‘There’s no need for that, Francesca.’

‘But I want to.’

Together they climbed the stairs, Francesca placed the food and wine carefully so that Del’s work was not threatened. She then settled herself on the other chair. There was nothing for it: Del rinsed out two glasses and poured them one each. ‘Cheers,’ she muttered.

‘Salute’, Francesca responded with rather more aplomb.

‘I was Salvatore’s girlfriend for some years.’

‘Really?’ What else could she say. She should have seen it coming but had been too pre-occupied to do so.

Francesca settled herself back in the chair; she had chosen the cushioned one, leaving Del with the upright.

‘Margherita is not a new subject with Sal as Silvia seems to believe. He talked to me of her.’

Another twist in the saga, Del thought sarcastically but merely smiled, encouraging her.

The older woman wriggled into a more comfortable position.

‘He was a smart young man when he returned from the war. My father had just bought this hotel and I was the waitress. You may not believe it now, Delma, but I think I was quite pretty in those days.’

‘No doubt you were.’ Del could hardly hide her amusement. ‘You set your cap at him?’

‘In a way. It wasn’t easy. He was attending Bari University; I was but a lowly waitress.’

‘But the hotel keeper’s daughter,’ Del laughed sociably.

‘Actually, we did not become friends, close friends,’ she winked, ‘until he was about forty. You see, he believed himself deeply in love, believed without doubt that this woman would come to him here.’

‘He never thought of going to her? Returning to Australia? Many Italian prisoners did return.’

Francesca seemed to entertain the idea for the first time; her face clouded, her brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t think he could, Delma, his life and career was here. In the university at Bari. And the family home was here in Trani.’

Del proffered the dish of nibbles and Francesca daintily accepted a slice of scamorze. ‘This cheese comes from the farm next door to ours.’

‘It’s very good. Do I remember you saying you have a vineyard?’

‘With our own winery. It is large enough not to be part of the co-operative.’

‘Who runs it?’

‘My brothers.’ She picked at an olive. ‘You are not eating, Delma? Our food does not please you?’

Del laughed softly, placing a hand on her stomach. ‘Oh, indeed it does.’ She scooped up a pinch of vegetables and put them in her mouth. ‘My brother is going to build a vineyard, make his own wine eventually.’

But Francesca was not interested in Del or her family. ‘Salvatore was lonely. He would come here frequently and we became close. Silvia and I had been friends from childhood; remain close friends.’ She ran her tongue round her teeth. ‘We became lovers.’

‘Did Silvia approve?’

‘She never knew.’ Francesca’s face closed in, her expression shuttered. ‘Nor does she today.’

‘Is the affair still going?’ Del knew the question was improper but, although she had not opened the subject, she would like to learn the conclusion.

‘Not for some years now. I was but a young man’s plaything. For a time. While he waited for his true love. Who never came.’

Del saw the picture. This woman had thrown all her chances of marriage away on love for a man who used her. Or, maybe, he had never led her on; instead, had she teased and tempted him to distraction? It was also possible the affair was in Francesca’s old head; dreams of the what-might-have-been type. Cynic! Del chided herself.

‘But I have kept you too long. You have work to do.’ Francesca rose and placed the glass, barely touched, beside Del.

They wished each other good night and Francesca shuffled away down the stairs and behind the office, where she apparently lived, while Del went back to work, back to the medieval love story.

Despite herself, Bianca had succumbed to Frederick’s charm and Del picked up the story from there.

I am pregnant. I am very nervous. I cannot guess what my brothers will say. I doubt F. will be upset: it is a commonplace occurrence for him to sire children with anyone. I tried to be different, believed myself special, kept myself away from the other women. I suppose he will banish me to the harem now.

My brother, Manfred, is thrilled with the news. He is the highest ranking official in the realm now and, with his pleasure, my future, and that of the babe’s, should be secure. Manfred offered to break the news to F. but I said no. It is my doing; F. never forced me (except he charmed me!) and I will face my responsibility.

***

When I slipped into his bed last night, thinking it would probably be for one last time, and whispered my news to him, F. was overjoyed. The delight dancing in his eyes reassured me. He loves me. He does. He spouted poetry and I, so thrilled and touched, can quote him even now.

‘And I, sharing kisses,
took great pleasure in her who loved me,
she of the blond hair and silver face.’

‘I will love you and never betray you my whole life long’, he promised me. It was the gentlest, sweetest night of lovemaking yet.

Del smiled as the words seemed to flow for her. At least she could assure Susie she was on track for the deadline when she talked to her.

‘Yes. Well’, Del muttered and, pulling the plate towards her, began nibbling again. She rose and took the glass of wine over to the window and sipped thoughtfully. It had all been highs so far in Bianca’s diary; it was time she gave her a low or two. Standing, Del checked her research notes. Within two years of Manfred’s birth, their daughter, Constance, was born but Frederick was also betrothed to Isabella of England whom he married in 1235. He had travelled to Worms to do so and the new bride had capitalised on her beauty in her progression south. She had thrown her veil back, delighting the masses. And another low for Bianca when Isabella conceived quickly only slightly mitigated by the child being female. Del ran her finger down the chart she had made of Bianca’s life. Again a low when Isabella’s son Henry was born a couple of years later.

The death of Isabella shortly before Christmas, 1241, in Foggia, opened the way for highs again in Bianca’s story. Perhaps Frederick married her soon afterwards. Certainly, she was, and always had been, in a different category to his other mistresses. Documents show he granted her the traditional lands of the Queens of the Two Sicilies but these were again available on Frederick’s death in 1250 when they were bequeathed to the favourite son, Bianca’s son, Manfred, in the Emperor’s last will.

Del combined some pickled anchovy with scamorze and, as she ate, let her thoughts roam on. Picking at the vegetables, cauliflower, marrow and scallions, garnished with basil and olive oil, she realised the platter Francesca had made up was all foodstuffs available in thirteenth century Apulia. And I’m here, eating food Bianca could have eaten, overlooking a cathedral hardly altered since her time and, across the inlet, a palace where Bianca may well have slept, she mused.

In her imagination, Del began to picture the arrival of Frederick’s imperial caravan, the wonder of all Europe. An advance guard of Saracen Arab cavalrymen from Lucera, Frederick’s Muslim city, would lead in, screening the fast-moving camels which carried the women. They rode in large, brightly curtained palanquins high above the dust and mud of the roads. Then, at a distance to avoid the stirred up dirt, would come the courtiers, Frederick in their midst, riding a powerful, black charger, his stallion, Dragon. Trains of pages and attendants, clad in bright, striped tunics and ochre-coloured stockings would follow. Some pages would be wearing tasselled gloves and carrying hooded falcons on their wrists. Lean, long dogs with bright red collars and leashes would trot beside mounted grooms and hunting leopards and cheetahs, eyes hooded, would ride behind others. Enjoying herself, Del added the elephant, its mahout and the crossbow men keeping watch from the wooden tower on its back. And the giraffe as well as more felines, lynxes and lions, and bears and monkeys. At one time, Frederick had had a white polar bear in his menagerie. By the time Frederick would have left the piazza, entered the palazzo, the mules and pack horses would clatter in, loaded with sacks, chests, boxes and coffers. In them would be books, treasures and complete wardrobes. Scribes and notaries were responsible for the luggage, continually riding back and forth checking the pack animals for lameness, the load for security.

Dare she picture Bianca, as a notary, checking the baggage? Was she filing affidavits, certifying deeds on the day of her death? The day Frederick left the caravan camp of Vittoria to hunt with his falcons?

Delma shivered at the thought that, in the larger scheme of things, she and Bianca might be very close. Academics claim the medieval mind different to the modern but they also say Frederick was ahead of his time. Maybe Bianca Lancia was too. Whatever, her son Manfred was Frederick’s favourite off-spring. He became the King of Sicily in the awful wars which saw the death of the Hohenstaufen regime and the disastrous Angevin takeover. Turbulent times indeed.

Fidelma sighed as the midnight bells rang out, the closest gargoyles seeming to mock her earnestness. It was time to call Australia, sort her own life out as best she could. When she returned to her essay, tomorrow she hoped, she would conjure up the rout of Vittoria and all its foolishness, let Bianca die there.

Del called Hazel Watts first. She had forgotten the old woman may well be enjoying a siesta but Hazel answered on the second ring.

‘Are you calling all the way from Rome, darling?’

‘Not exactly,’ Del responded, a smile in her voice, ‘from Italy. Southern Italy.’

‘Why there, pet? They’re rough, peasant types, there,’ adding, more stridently, ‘you aren’t in trouble are you?’

Del laughed softly. ‘Of course not, Aunty Hazel, and they are lovely people, believe you me.’

‘If you say so, dear. But not very educated.’

Del took a deep breath. From where did Hazel’s prejudices spring? Had not Australia’s heavy post-war influx of migrants altered her original perceptions one whit? The idea of multiculturalism seemed to have passed her by. Perhaps Del was stupid to think Hazel could give her unbiased advice. Yet, she was desperate to tell some one, gauge some reaction that would help her resolve the dilemma.

Hazel was an expert at small talk, as were most of her generation; Del would have to make her focus on her problem. She could picture Hazel holding the handset tightly, the room, the closed in verandah by the kitchen where they seemed to live now, shadowed in the mid-afternoon sunshine, bees buzzing in the late blooming roses outside the wide windows.

‘My father is very well educated.’

She waited, anxious, expecting Hazel to be evasive.

‘Is he, pet? Has he done well for himself?’

Fidelma let out the breath she was holding.

‘So. You did know?’

‘Know what, darling?’

Del stifled a sigh. This was the most difficult interview she had ever been involved in. ‘That Dave was not my father.’

‘I’m disappointed in you, Fidelma,’ Hazel had changed tack with a sharpness of tone, ‘listening to and believing in rumours. Because rumour is all it is,’ she finished defiantly.

Del counted to three and dived in again.

‘The problem, Aunty Haze, is I’ve found my birth father and I don’t know whether to tell him, the twins or,’ she shrugged, ‘anyone.’

But Hazel Watts surprised Del again; she was up to the challenge.

‘Is he very old?’ she asked, adding, ‘he was a handsome young fellow. In that swarthy Mediterranean way.’

‘He is retired. From a professorship at Bari University. So,’ Del was seeking control of the conversation again, ‘you always knew?’

‘Yes. Or rather I guessed like most others,’ Hazel hissed. The venom caught Del off-guard.

The puzzle was Del could never remember a time — until these last few weeks — when she had not been considered a Dunne, albeit with a splash of Spanish. But Barry Jackson had called her ‘wog’ and ‘dago’ just recently. He was under stress; she believed he had regressed to playground talk. But it just could be fresh talk. Was it possible the undercurrent of her mother’s deceit had continued to flow through the community?

Silence. Del could feel the satellite seconds ticking away in Francesca’s switchboard.

‘Maggie never admitted anything. I was her closest friend and she never so much as passed a hinted whisper to me.’ Hazel’s voice, trembling, broke into her reverie. ‘What would your mother think if she knew you were digging up her past? The past she hid so well?’

‘It was my mother who told me.’

Another half-strangled sound then, ‘When?’

‘Just before she died.’

‘Oh Fidelma,’ anguish laced Hazel words, ‘she kept it secret for so long. Why did she not take it to the grave?’

The breakthrough. ‘The point is, Aunty Haze, she told me and I had to verify the fact.’

‘Yes. You are as stubborn as poor Maggie ever was.’

‘And now,’ Del resumed control, ‘I wonder whether I should tell our daughters.’ Tears were pricking her eyes. ‘I’d value your advice,’ she gulped.

Again the old woman rose to the occasion. ‘Let sleeping dogs lie. Stir an ant nest and the ants run every which-way, out of control.’

‘I see. Thank you. How’s George?’ she added, on an almost hysterical note.

‘This must be costing you a fortune, Pet. We’ll leave it now and have a good old chinwag when you come home. And you stay clear of that Barry Jackson!’

‘Sure. Thanks Aunty Haze. Lots of love.’

Del replaced the handset, more upset than she had believed possible.

Slowly, she finished the plate of food. And the jug of wine. It was only as the cathedral clock approached two that she realised she had to ring Susan now or wait another day. Switching off from her own problems she had managed to jot sufficient notes to bring Bianca’s story up to her death day — or the day Del thought it might be.

Jodie quickly passed her call through to Susan.

‘Well, hello, still living in interesting times?’

‘You haven’t heard the half of it, Suse, and I badly need a friend.’

‘Yours forever. Have you met up with that guy Barbara spoke of?’

Del took a deep breath, steadied herself. ‘Yes. I believe he is my father.’

Susan’s laugh rippled into the room. ‘That’s delicious!’ then, seriously, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Exactly that.’ Del rushed on, ‘but the problem is whether I let him know.’

‘Del, are you okay?’ Susan was serious, concerned. ‘Your Dad died in first year uni.’

‘It is a wise father that knows his own child,’ she quipped.

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Only slightly.’ She breathed deeply, sobering her thoughts. ‘Suse, listen to me. It seems from all the evidence I am the daughter of Professor Salvatore Brenna and not of Dave Dunne, Australian farmer. Of course, he wasn’t professor when he sired me but the material was there.’

‘Bit hard to swallow.’ Susan was using her ‘wrapping-up’ voice. Del tried again.

‘Oh, Suse, believe me. Listen to me.’ Del hated the begging tone in her voice. It betrayed her loneliness. ‘The point is, Suse, I was fathered by an Italian prisoner of war in an orange orchard while my father was being repatriated a broken man.’

Silence, harsh and cold in the wee morning hours and the bells clanging.

‘Sorry, Del. But you do sound a bit off the planet. About this father of yours…?’

‘I don’t know whether to claim him. Kevin, as you know, was adopted, and now I find I have this Italian father, not the one I grew up with. Loved. And what about our twins?’

‘Whoa!’ Susie whistled, ‘let’s take this slowly. How do you know this man is your father?’

‘My mother told me just before she died. And there was a letter from him among her belongings. I’ve also spoken to Mum’s oldest friend and, and I’ve met him. He talks of Margherita and recognised my dimple and…’

‘If what you are saying is true and not the plonk talking you—’

‘—It’s true!’ Del wailed, running a hand through her hair, biting back tears, wishing she hadn’t called Susan.

‘What does your sister make of the story?’ Susan spoke quietly, with warmth, calming Del as best she could in the circumstances.

‘Anne doesn’t know. I don’t think I could ever tell her. Davy, maybe, but not Anne.’

‘And your twins?’

Tension eased. ‘That’s just it. I can cope with the facts for myself – at least I’m trying to — but do I claim this man and tell my daughters about their grandfather?’

‘What’s he like?’

‘He’s, well, rather precious with himself. Has a sister waiting on him hand and foot. And he thought I was wasting my time writing about a woman when the man’s story is of more value.’

‘That sort of guy.’ Del could picture Sue nodding knowingly as she spoke.

‘It’s this, Suse,’ Del tried again, ‘I have found my birth father. Should I tell him who I am and should I tell the twins about him?’

Sue thought quickly, believing Del needed direction rather than comfort.

‘In politically correct jargon everyone is entitled to know the truth about themselves. I think,’ Susan hesitated slightly but her office was her power base, she was used to issuing advice from there, ‘everyone has the right to know their birth parents. Has he other children?’

‘No. I don’t think so. He never married.’

‘Loved your mother for life, did he?’

‘Apparently. He weeps about her.’

‘Oh, Del! I wish I could give you a hug.’

‘It would be nice.’

‘He’d want to know about your mother. Yes, Del,’ Sue continued as the thought occurred to her, ‘he has a right to closure.’ Something Anne might have said.

‘Then you think I should make myself known to him. And also tell the twins.’ Again, a sharp pang of anger leapt within her: Kevin should be here helping her decide. She stifled the thought and gulped at the awful, sudden loneliness that followed.

‘Well, put it this way: are you glad your mother told you?’

‘No.’

‘Del,’ she could hear the smile in Susan’s voice, ‘you always were very stubborn.’

‘What if he has recognised me and doesn’t want to know me?’ It was out before Del could stop herself. The true, underlying reason for her anguish. The shame if he rejected her.

‘Not a problem, Del, he’ll love you.’ Del could sense the finality in Sue’s words; she probably had a couple more calls to make before she finished up for the day. ‘How goes the manuscript?’

‘Good. Good. Have just the death scene to write and it is all yours.’

‘You’re a wonder, Mr Sheen!’ Del could feel Susie’s smug smile all the way down the closing telephone line. She loved pulling her authors into line; always had. Friend or foe, it made no difference.

Del sat quietly for some time then busied herself with teeth cleaning and changing into her nightgown. As she pulled the sheets up, reaching for a blanket in the cool, she realised that, by telling him, she would be her mother’s messenger. And that she would not be.