Two Lives Part 17

'The first minute I have to spare we'll go out there. Myself and yourself.'

'It's the place where the Attridges are buried. The Attridge family.'

'I know it well.'

The desire to be away, to be in the bar at Hogan's, has developed into a soreness that spreads all over his body. That first time, the first occasion he visited her, he said: 'Well now, and how are you, dear?' She shook her head, referring to some beggarwoman with second sight. On later visits he told her the news from the town, how Foley's had been converted into a self-service, with wire baskets, how Sarsfield's in Lower Bridge Street was the first bar to have the television installed.

'I really want it,' she begs. 'It's the only thing I want.'

'No problem about the grave, dear.'

Once she was locked away it would be as though she had died. Her advent had been a destruction, and they imagined a fresh beginning for the three of them. But within ten months he was listening at last to Kilkenny's sales talk at the garage, and then he bought a car purely so that three or four times a year he could visit her. Not once have they sat in that car; not once have they seen, even in the distance, the house she went to. 'Come over for the drive,' he used to offer, but neither cared to reply.

They sit in the big front room, its grey wallpaper unchanged in their lifetime, a room their brother has not entered for almost thirty years. They manage their outrage at their sister-in-law's presence as best they can; they're too old now for the vigour of such feelings, Rose seventy-four, Matilda seventy-three. 'You d.a.m.n fool,' Rose said when first he told them she was to all intents and purposes cured due to wonder drugs. He repeated words that had been used to him, 'caring', and 'commitment' and 'community'. Ridiculous, it sounded, all that coming out of a grown man. He was finished years ago; until then they had used their energy protesting, in an endeavour to conserve what remained. What does it matter now? The shop has gone and with it their standing in the town. Often he does not wear a tie. They have seen him pa.s.s out of the halldoor in his old felt slippers. As if he's feeding a dog, he gathers up the remains and carries the tray up the attic stairs, or carelessly breaks the egg yolk when he fries it, not noticing the splinters of sh.e.l.l that fall into the fat.

'You d.a.m.n fool,' Rose says again, coldly stating the fact, her tone without the emotion that years ago would have made it shrill. She says it often.

'She has a brother and a sister,' Matilda reminds him, often also. 'It isn't here she belongs. Who says it's here?'

'She is my wife.'

These exchanges, and other pa.s.sages of conversation, are recalled in the grey front room, but are not dwelt upon in further conversation, are not mulled over aloud. Memories possess the two old women, further souring their bitterness. There are echoes of a time that might so easily and so naturally have continued: he'd been the person in their lives when it seemed clear that no one else was waiting to transform their lives. Making cakes for him, roasting meat, darning and mending, changing his sheets, the presents given and received on Christmas Day, he in the accounting office, they receiving in the shop: once, like a promise, there was the perpetuity of all that. Modest enough, G.o.d knows; not much to ask.

James at Culleen would like to hand the farm on to any of his sons but none of them wants it. James married Angela Eddery, and both are disappointed about this family rejection but do not let it show. There isn't a living at Culleen, each of their sons has said, which bewilders James because there always was before. 'Well, at least it'll see us out,' Angela reminds him, and they agree that that's a blessing to be grateful for.

Soon after Mary Louise's return Angela reports in the kitchen at Culleen that she has seen her in Bridge Street. She recognized her after an initial hesitation and would have spoken to her if there hadn't been that moment of doubt. By the time she gathered herself together her sister-in-law had pa.s.sed on.

'I suppose she'll have to come out here.' James sounds more grudging than he feels, the words too carelessly chosen.

'Of course she must, James! As often as she likes.'

Over the years Angela has had her ups and downs at Culleen. Often, when feeling low, she has thought of Mary Louise and seen her own life in perspective: she has been grateful for that. Once she and James visited his sister, but afterwards he said he didn't want to go again. James has always been embarra.s.sed by his sister's misfortune, and Angela is aware that this has probably been sensed by Mary Louise. She won't come out to Culleen, Angela intuitively guesses, and feels she could confidently rea.s.sure James on that score. She chooses not to.

When Dennehy inherited the premises at Ennistane crossroads he ceased to practise as a vet. He and Letty sold the house they'd had rebuilt at the time of their marriage and moved their family to the public house. Tired of being called out in the middle of the night to attend ailing animals, Dennehy took contentedly to the life of a publican and Letty enjoyed the more substantial income that the change brought with it.

'She should live with us,' she remarked when her sister's emergence from her sanctuary was first mooted. Dennehy raised no objection. The house was large, the bars busy: no matter how odd she was, another woman wouldn't be noticed about the place.

'She should have come here,' Letty repeats when Mary Louise has been back a while, and two days later she calls to see her sister in order, again, to put the proposition to her. 'There'll be a home with us,' she has earlier a.s.sured Miss Foye on her visits, and a.s.sured Mary Louise also. The big, noisy public house with all that coming and going, and a family of nephews and nieces, is surely more like it than the company of Elmer Quarry. Years ago Letty came to a private conclusion, shared only with her husband: Mary Louise had been maddened by the gross presence of Elmer Quarry in her bed, his demands had frightened and repelled her to a degree that in the end affected her mind. She could understand it, Letty maintained: you had only to imagine Elmer Quarry standing naked in your bedroom and you'd want to close your eyes for ever. Mary Louise has always been too innocent, too trusting and unworldly, to cope with any of that. Hair sprouted out of Elmer Quarry's ears, and out of his nostrils, black bristly hair that would sicken you when it came close. The sides of his face had a way of becoming damp with sweat, and that sweat would touch you. He took to drink because when it came down to it Mary Louise couldn't disguise her revulsion.

'Oh, I belong here,' Mary Louise insists. 'I'll visit you often.'

Like Angela, Letty knows she won't.

How could you have a grave up? How could you disturb the bones of the dead and for no good reason convey them five miles across the countryside to a graveyard that went out of business years ago? In the bar of Hogan's Hotel Elmer asks himself these questions, cogitating on their source. The cousin she spoke of had been an unfortunate with a delicate heart or lungs, never expected to live. A week ago she'd dragged her way through the long gra.s.s and pointed at a corner in the old graveyard where she and the cousin could go. She had it in her head that there'd been something between them.

'Replenish that, like a good man.' Elmer pushes his gla.s.s across the familiar surface of the bar, and Gerry receives it in an equally familiar grasp. He has a way of holding gla.s.ses these days, the fingers bent like claws due to arthritis.

'It's a fact what I was telling you, Mr Quarry. We have a one-way system threatened.'

'Are you serious?'

'Oh, I am, sir. They have the plans drawn up.'

'It'll damage trade.'

'Of course it will. Sure, you can't watch them.'

Elmer nods. The town is congested, no doubt about it, but a one-way traffic system will do more harm than good. He nods again, lending emphasis.

'Has she settled, sir?' the barman tentatively inquires a moment later.

'She has, Gerry. She's settled well.'

When he brings the trays up she talks to him about Russians. She has all the names off pat, no telling where she picked them up. A fortune it would cost, taking up remains, a whole long battle with the powers that be. Set stuff like that in motion and you wouldn't know where you'd end up. He was caught once through doing the decent thing; he was caught when they put it to him about the efficacy of the drugs, but if a woman who talks about Russians and opening up graves is back to normal it's a queer thing. The truth of it is they want them out of those places for economic reasons. He should have known that in the final a.n.a.lysis there's nothing that doesn't come down to pounds, shillings and pence.

'I saw her out walking a week back,' the barman chattily continues. 'Fit as a fiddle she looked.'

'Oh, game ball, Gerry, game ball.'

In mutual, unspoken agreement neither Elmer nor the Dallons have ever revealed the true facts about the purchasing of the rat poison. In the town it is generally believed that Elmer Quarry's wife was taken to the asylum because she couldn't be managed any more, which is true enough. At the time it went about the town that she played with toys and imagined rats were going to attack her. On several occasions she had attempted to administer poison to herself. She'd bought clothes from the poor when there was a shopful of clothes underneath where she lived.

'Well, that's great, sir.'

'It is of course, Gerry.'

He'd drive her out again tomorrow and get the bottoms of his trousers soaking wet in the gra.s.s. It annoys them to see him driving her out, especially since they don't know where the drive is heading. It's enjoyable sometimes to annoy them. 'Did you find out about a single gravestone?' she asked this morning, and he promised that the matter was well in hand.

When Elmer leaves the bar he does so by the door that opens on to the street, no longer pa.s.sing through the hall of the hotel, as once he used to. Bridget retired several years ago, but even before that Elmer hadn't bothered with loitering in the hall any more.

30.

Again she is the only one, a slight figure in the corner of the pew. Two colours black and brown are arranged, stylishly, in her coat, its fur collar turned up for warmth. They are repeated in her soft suede shoes. The first wrinkles of old age creep around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, but the beauty that only her cousin ever remarked upon has not yet deserted her. A madonna look, her cousin said to himself the night he died while dreaming of her.

'Amen,' she murmurs, thin fingers splayed on her forehead, eyes closed.

The clergyman who stands at the altar is tall, a young man still unmarried, not long the inheritor of five far-flung parishes. Every Sunday, from eight o'clock till nightfall, he makes the rounds of his spa.r.s.e attendances, spreading the Gospel over many miles, among the few. Often now this woman, until recently accounted mad, is the only occupant of these pews.

'Lighten our darkness...' he softly pleads. Shades of green and crimson, of blue and yellow, glow dully in the window behind him, scrolls looping, basketwork and swaddling clothes. No hymns are sung when she is the only one, the psalm is not intoned. Instead of a sermon the two converse. he softly pleads. Shades of green and crimson, of blue and yellow, glow dully in the window behind him, scrolls looping, basketwork and swaddling clothes. No hymns are sung when she is the only one, the psalm is not intoned. Instead of a sermon the two converse. 'The peace of G.o.d, which pa.s.seth all understanding...' 'The peace of G.o.d, which pa.s.seth all understanding...'

She remembers how in childhood, and when she was a girl, church services const.i.tuted an outing, how after her marriage they provided an opportunity to meet her family. She began to enjoy them for themselves during the years she was away.

'That was very nice,' she compliments the clergyman. 'Beautifully conducted.'

'It's good of you to come so often.'

'I was thinking of Miss Mullover during our Te Deum Te Deum. I don't know why.'

The schoolteacher was long before his time, but often on these Sunday occasions her name crops up. In a schoolroom two children glance at one another with curiosity, mildly antic.i.p.ating the love there is to be: again that picture forms in his mind.

'It has always surprised me that she didn't guess. That she didn't know we belonged to each other.'

He nods, not signifying understanding, only making the gesture because a response is necessary.

'Robert and I belonged to one another before we could breathe, certainly before either of us knew the other existed.'

'You've told me.'

'Is that how love starts, belonging without knowing it? When you look back it seems so.'

Again he nods, acknowledging her greater experience. Beneath his surplice there is a shrugging motion also, honestly reflecting his uncertainty.

'G.o.d gives permission: is that it, d'you think?'

'Possibly.'

'And perhaps it's not allowed, either, that someone else may guess?'

'Perhaps not.' He lifts the surplice over his head. Her company is like a child's. Saying at once what occurs to her may have to do with her incarceration, a habit she picked up from her companions. Having not known her before that time, he cannot easily guess.

'He bought a motor-car so that he could visit me. It's asking less that he should see to the graves. Is it still too much?'

He drapes the surplice over his left arm, smoothing the creases and watching them return. She has told him about reading the novels of Turgenev among the tombstones. She has told him that for eight years she has flushed the prescribed drugs down the lavatory, that she does not take them now because they are not necessary. As she stands in the pew, smiling up at him, her life seems as mysterious as an act of G.o.d, her innocence and her boundless love arbitrarily there, her last modest wish destined to go ungranted. The distress engendered in him by these thoughts turns into a familiar apprehension: contemplation of this woman's life could tease away his faith more surely than all his empty churches.

'May I take communion?'

It will make him late, but he does not demur. The surplice is replaced, the bread and wine unlocked, and measured out and offered. 'Do this,' 'Do this,' he mutters, he mutters, 'in remembrance of me...' 'in remembrance of me...'

She remembers her cousin reading the bit that likened death to a fisherman. She remembers her husband bringing the bars of chocolate on his visits, Crunchie and Caramel Crisp. She remembers his saying that he'd had the front woodwork of the shop repainted blue. Best to stick with blue, he explained, you knew where you were with blue. 'I hear your sister's in a certain condition again,' he said as well. He'd bought the chocolate bars in Foley's.

There is a final prayer, a whispering sound that reminds her of a breeze. If he feels inclined, the fisherman keeps the caught fish in the water, still swimming although it's netted.

'I must go now,' the clergyman says, but listens while she tells him about Turgenev's fisherman. Inviting her into the world of a novelist had been her cousin's courtship, all he could manage, as much as she could accept. Yet pa.s.sion came, like consummation in the end. For thirty-one years she'd clung to a refuge in which her love affair could spread itself, a safe house offering sanctuary. For thirty-one years she pa.s.sed as mad and was at peace.

'I dress for him,' she says. 'I make my face up in our graveyard. It is nice I can dress for him again.'

He smiles, recalling how she giggled when she told him that she had never opened the Rodenkil. Still giggling, she said she once had written I must not be mischievous I must not be mischievous a hundred times. She bought the Rodenkil from her husband's friend on purpose. She stained the rissoles green with the Stephens' ink she'd taken from her cousin's bedroom. 'People think the worst of you,' she added when she'd said all that, and added further that you could hardly blame them. a hundred times. She bought the Rodenkil from her husband's friend on purpose. She stained the rissoles green with the Stephens' ink she'd taken from her cousin's bedroom. 'People think the worst of you,' she added when she'd said all that, and added further that you could hardly blame them.

'I'm sorry I delayed you,' she apologises before she turns to go. 'I'm a dreadful old nuisance.'

He watches as she walks away. Prosperous, she strikes him as just for a moment, her pretty shoes, her brown and black coat, a fragile figure, yet prosperous in her love. Does she tell Elmer Quarry that she dresses for her cousin? Does he pay for her clothes without question, because he doesn't want to think about any of it? Does love like hers frighten everyone just a little?

'Goodbye,' the clergyman calls after her, and she turns and waves, and then is gone.

Alone in the cold church he sees her again for an instant, the child in the schoolroom, glancing across the desks at her delicate cousin. In the bedroom she touches the collar-stud with her lips and takes from the dressing-table drawer the bottle of Stephens' ink. Warmed by sunlight, her finger traces the letters on an Attridge gravestone; in the blue-washed cottage she bargains for her cousin's clothes. She arranges the soldiers in a battle she does not understand; she hangs the watch on the nail by the fireplace. Their voices join, entangled, reading about Russians.

She'll outlive the Quarrys, the clergyman reflects, and sees her differently: old and alone, moving about from room to room in the house above the shop. 'I have arranged it,' his own voice promises, the least he can surely do.

There is the funeral, and then the lovers lie together.

My House in Umbria

1.

It is not easy to introduce myself. Gloria Grey, Janine Ann Johns, Cora Lamore: there is a choice, and there have been other names as well. Names hardly matter, I think; it is perhaps enough to say I like Emily Delahunty best. 'Mrs Delahunty,' people say, although strictly speaking I have never been married. I am offered the t.i.tle out of respect to a woman of my appearance and my years; and Quinty who addresses me more than anyone else once said when I questioned him on the issue: ' "Miss Delahunty" doesn't suit you.'

I make no bones about it, I am not a woman of the world; I am not an educated woman; what I know I have taught myself. Rumour and speculation even downright lies ' have abounded since I was sixteen years old. In any person's life that side of things is unavoidable, but I believe I have suffered more than most, and take this opportunity to set the record straight. Firstly, my presence on the S.S. Hamburg Hamburg in my less affluent days was as a stewardess, nothing more. Secondly, it is a mischievous fabrication that at the time of the Oleander Avenue scandal I accepted money in return for silence. Thirdly, Mrs Chubbs was dead, indeed already buried, before I met her husband. On the other hand I do not deny that men have offered me gifts, probably all of which I have accepted. Nor do I deny that my years in Africa are marked, in my memory, with personal regret. Unhappiness breeds confusion and misunderstanding. I was far from happy in Ombubu, at the Cafe Rose. in my less affluent days was as a stewardess, nothing more. Secondly, it is a mischievous fabrication that at the time of the Oleander Avenue scandal I accepted money in return for silence. Thirdly, Mrs Chubbs was dead, indeed already buried, before I met her husband. On the other hand I do not deny that men have offered me gifts, probably all of which I have accepted. Nor do I deny that my years in Africa are marked, in my memory, with personal regret. Unhappiness breeds confusion and misunderstanding. I was far from happy in Ombubu, at the Cafe Rose.

In the summer of which I now write I had reached my fifty-sixth year a woman carefully made up, eyes a greenish-blue. Then, as now, my hair was as pale as sand, as smooth as a seash.e.l.l, the unfussy style reflecting the roundness of my face. My mouth is a full rosebud, my nose cla.s.sical; my complexion has always been admired. Naturally, there were laughter lines that summer, but my skin, though no longer the skin of a girl, had worn well and my voice had not yet acquired the husky depths that steal away femininity. In Italy men who were strangers to me still gave me a second look, although naturally not with the same excitement as once men did in other places where I've lived. I had, in truth, become more than a little plump, and though perhaps I should have dressed with such a consideration in mind this is something I have never been able to bring myself to do: I cannot resist just a hint of drama in my clothes though not bright colours, which I abhor. 'I never knew a girl dress herself up so prettily,' a man who sat on the board of a carpet business used to say, and my tendency to put on a pound or two has not been without admirers. A bag of bones Mrs Chubbs was, according to her husband, which is why so I've always suspected he took to me in the first place.

Having read so far, you'll probably be surprised to learn that I'm a woman who prays. When I was a child I went to Sunday school and had a picture of Jesus on a donkey above my bed. In the Cafe Rose in Ombubu I interested Poor Boy Abraham in praying also, the only person I have ever influenced in this way. 'He's r.e.t.a.r.ded, that boy,' Quinty used to say in his joky way, careless as to whether or not the boy was within earshot. Quinty's like that, as you'll discover.

I am the author of a series of fictional romances, composed in my middle age after my arrival in this house. I am no longer active in that field, and did not ever presume to intrude myself into the world of literature though, in fairness to veracity, I must allow that my modest works dissect with some success the tangled emotions of which they treat. That they have given pleasure I am a.s.sured by those kind enough to write in appreciation. They have helped; they have whiled away the time. I can honestly state that I intended no more, and I believe you'll find I am an honest woman.

But to begin at the beginning. I was born on the upper stairway of a lodging-house in an English seaside resort. My father owned a Wall of Death; my mother, travelling the country with him, partic.i.p.ated in the entertainment by standing upright on the pillion of his motor-cycle while he raced it round the rickety enclosure. I never knew either of them. According to the only account I have that of Mrs Trice, who had it from the lodging-house keeper my mother was on her way to the first-floor lavatory when she was taken with child, if you'll forgive that way of putting it. Within minutes an infant's cries were heard on the stairway. 'That was a setback,' Mrs Trice explained, and further revealed that in her opinion my father and mother had counted on my mother's continuing performance on the motor-cycle pillion to 'do the trick'. By this she meant I would be stillborn, since efforts at aborting had failed. It was because I wasn't that the arrangement was made with Mr and Mrs Trice, of 21 Prince Albert Street, in that same seaside town.

They were a childless couple who had long ago abandoned hope of parenthood: they paid for the infant that was not wanted, the bargain being that all rights were thereby re-linquished and that no visit to 21 Prince Albert Street would ever be attempted by the natural parents. Although n.o.body understands more than I the necessity that caused those people of a Wall of Death to act as they did, to this day I fear abandonment, and have instinctively avoided it as a fictional subject. The girls of my romances were never left by lovers who took from them what they would. Mothers did not turn their backs on little children. Wives did not pitifully plead or in bitterness cuckold their husbands. The sombre side of things did not appeal to me; in my works I dealt in happiness ever after.

Quinty is familiar with my origins, for nothing can be kept from him. In Africa he knew I had acc.u.mulated money, probably how much. In 1978, when we had known one another for some time in Ombubu, it was he who suggested that I should buy a property in Umbria, which he would run for me as an informal hotel quite different from the Cafe Rose. Repeatedly he pressed the notion upon me, tiring me with the steel of his gaze. Enough money had been made; there was no need for either of us to linger where we were. That was the statement in his eyes. We could both trade silence for silence in another kind of house. Half a child and half a rogue he is.

Quinty was born in the town of Skibbereen, in Ireland, approximately forty-two years ago. He is a lean man, with a light footstep, gaunt about the features. From the outer corner of each eye two long wrinkles run down his cheeks, like threads. When first I knew him in Ombubu he was shifty and unhealthy-looking. 'There's a sick man here,' Poor Boy Abraham cried, excited because a stranger had arrived at the cafe. I never knew where it was that Quinty had come from in Africa, or what had brought him to the continent in the first place. But I later heard, the way one does in an outpost like Ombubu, that several years before he'd tricked into marriage the daughter of a well-to-do Italian family, whom he had come across when she was an au pair girl in London. She ran away from him when she discovered that he was not not the manager of a meat-extract factory, as he had claimed, and that he stole his clothes from D. H. Evans. He followed her to Modena, bothering her and threatening, until one night her father and two of her brothers drove him a little way towards Parma, pushed him out on to a gra.s.s verge and left him there. He did not attempt to return, but that was how he came to be in Italy and learned the language. When first he mentioned Umbria to me I'd no idea where it was; I doubt I'd even heard of it. 'Let me have just a little money,' he begged in Ombubu one damply oppressive afternoon. 'Enough for the journey and then to look about.' Africa had gone stale for me, he said, which was a delicate way of putting it; the regulars at the Cafe Rose had not changed for years. In other words, the place had become a bore for both of us. the manager of a meat-extract factory, as he had claimed, and that he stole his clothes from D. H. Evans. He followed her to Modena, bothering her and threatening, until one night her father and two of her brothers drove him a little way towards Parma, pushed him out on to a gra.s.s verge and left him there. He did not attempt to return, but that was how he came to be in Italy and learned the language. When first he mentioned Umbria to me I'd no idea where it was; I doubt I'd even heard of it. 'Let me have just a little money,' he begged in Ombubu one damply oppressive afternoon. 'Enough for the journey and then to look about.' Africa had gone stale for me, he said, which was a delicate way of putting it; the regulars at the Cafe Rose had not changed for years. In other words, the place had become a bore for both of us.

He sang the praises of Italy; I listened to descriptions of Umbrian landscape and hill-towns, of seasons bringing their variation of food and wine. Quinty can be persuasive, and I was happy enough to agree that a time of my life had come to an end. He'd played a certain role during most of that time, I have to say in fairness, and I have to give him credit for it. When he raised the subject of Italy I did the simplest thing: I gave him the money, believing I'd never see him again. But he returned a fortnight later and spread out photographs of Umbria and of villas that might be purchased. 'No one would care to die in the Cafe Rose,' he pointed out, a sentiment with which I could not but concur. One house in particular he was keen on.

Imagine a yellowish building at the end of a track that is in places like a riverbed. White with dust unless rain has darkened it, this track is two hundred metres long, curving through a landscape of olive trees and cypresses. In summer, broom and laburnum daub the clover slopes, poppies and geraniums sprinkle the meadows. Behind the house the hill continues to rise gently, and there's a field of sunflowers. The great lake of Trasimeno is on our doorstep; only thirty kilometres to the south there's a railway junction at Chiusi, which is convenient; and in the same area there's a health spa at Chianciano. In Quinty's photographs of the house there were out-buildings, and machinery that had rusted, but all that has changed since.

Of the house itself, the window shutters are a faded green, and the entrance doors always open in the daytime are green also. Further doors gla.s.s decoratively framed with metal separate the outside hall from the inner, and the floors of both, and of the dining-room and drawing-room called by Quinty the salotto salotto are tiled, a shade of pale terracotta. Upstairs, on either side of two long, cool corridors, the bedrooms are small and simple, like convent cells. All are cream-distempered, with inside shutters instead of curtains, each with a dressing-table, a wardrobe and a bed, and a reproduction of a different Annunciation above each wash-stand. What luxury there is in my house belongs to the antique furniture of the downstairs rooms and the inner hall: embroidered sofas, pale chairs and tables, inlaid writing-desks, footstools, gla.s.s-fronted bookcases, the dining-room's chandelier. are tiled, a shade of pale terracotta. Upstairs, on either side of two long, cool corridors, the bedrooms are small and simple, like convent cells. All are cream-distempered, with inside shutters instead of curtains, each with a dressing-table, a wardrobe and a bed, and a reproduction of a different Annunciation above each wash-stand. What luxury there is in my house belongs to the antique furniture of the downstairs rooms and the inner hall: embroidered sofas, pale chairs and tables, inlaid writing-desks, footstools, gla.s.s-fronted bookcases, the dining-room's chandelier.

When the tourists come to my house they pull the bell-chain and the sound echoes from the outer hall. Then Quinty, in his trim white jacket, answers the summons. 'Well?' he says in English, for one of his quirks is not immediately to speak Italian to strangers. 'How can I help you?' And the tourists cobble together what English they can, if it happens not to be their native tongue.

A handful of travellers is all Quinty ever makes welcome at a time, people who have spilled over from the hotels of the town that lies five kilometres away. A small, middle-aged woman called Signora Bardini, dressed always and entirely in black, is employed to cook. And Quinty found Rosa Crevelli, a long-legged, dark-skinned maid, to a.s.sist him in the dining-room. He presents us to our visitors as a private household, not at all in a commercial line of business. From the outset my house was known neither as an albergo albergo nor a nor a pensione, pensione, nor a restaurant with rooms, nor an hotel. 'This is what suits?' he suggested. nor a restaurant with rooms, nor an hotel. 'This is what suits?' he suggested.

Being profitable, it was what suited Quinty, but for other reasons it suited me also. Once, somewhere, I have seen a painted frieze continuing around the inside walls of a church people processing in old-fashioned dress, proceeding on their way to Heaven or to h.e.l.l, I'm not sure which. Over the years the tourists who have come to my house have lingered in my memory like that. I see their faces, and even sometimes still hear their voices: tall Dutch people, the stylish French, Germans who brought with them jars of breakfast food, Americans delighting in simple things as much as children do, English couples suffering from digestive troubles. Chapters of books have been read, postcards written, bridge played in the evenings, even pictures painted, on the terrace. I have suffered no bad debts, nor have there ever been complaints about the bedrooms or the food. Quinty gave Rosa Crevelli English lessons and took up something else with her in private, but I asked no questions. Instead, within a month of settling in this house, I taught myself to type.