The Silent Wife(9)
Massimo scooped him up and hugged him to his chest, patting his back. ‘Don’t worry. It’s normal to feel upset when someone – or something – you love dies. If she doesn’t turn up, we’ll get you another pet.’
Sandro had managed a tiny smile, grateful for Massimo’s kindness. Even in my distress, I’d experienced a little burst of pleasure that Massimo didn’t rush to tell him to stop crying and man up, and just allowed him to express his feelings without being told how to manage them. One word of understanding from Massimo, the faintest fatherly compliment, the smallest paternal hint of approval trumped any amount of ego-bolstering praise from me. I forced myself to be delighted we’d reached a turning point where Sandro had matured enough to become interesting to his dad, rather than just a demanding child who diverted my attention from Massimo.
Yet again my naivety was astounding.
5
MAGGIE
After Anna getting all Godfatherish over my moving suggestion, I waved a white flag and left it to Nico to break the news to Anna that we’d be holding the lunch at ours on the anniversary of Caitlin’s death. With an admirable ‘stick it in your pipe and smoke it’ attitude, he’d declared, ‘Oh for God’s sake. Mum is so irrational sometimes. If we decide moving is right for our family, she’ll just have to get over it. And if she doesn’t want to come here for lunch on Saturday, then she’ll have to eat a boiled egg on her own. It’s bad enough trying to win Francesca round. I’m not pandering to Mum as well. And you mustn’t either.’
The anniversary that didn’t need to be ringed on the calendar, the twentieth of February, arrived, bitterly cold and overcast. Yet again, I felt apologetic for my very existence, a living, breathing reminder of all that Francesca had lost, without yet persuading her that I could add any value. Although Francesca had inherited Nico’s golden skin and dark hair, she was every bit Caitlin’s daughter, with her angular features and waif-like build. She’d definitely be on my mum’s ‘needs feeding up a bit’ radar. I offered to make her scrambled eggs.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You’ll need something substantial inside you to keep you warm. It’s going to be cold at the cemetery.’
‘I know it’s cold at the cemetery,’ she said, stuffing a handful of Quavers into her mouth.
Nico glanced at me, asking for my understanding. I left them to it. Today wasn’t a day to win any wars. My heart ached for Francesca, with her wan face and restless fingers, picking away at her cuticles until they were sore and bleeding.
I was thirty-five and still couldn’t imagine a world without my mum, who – thank God – had agreed to help me with lunch. She barrelled in just as the entire Farinelli family were gathering at the gate to walk up the hill to the graveyard. She clucked through the group, exclaiming about the gorgeousness of Sandro, how much he’d grown, the chill in the February air, Francesca’s lack of gloves – trying and failing to foist her own fingerless mittens on her. She didn’t care that they all stood around like skittles braced against a bowling ball; she just rattled on, admiring the white roses Francesca was holding, patting Sandro’s head, pressing toffees into his hands.
From what I’d seen of Lara, she’d be swapping those sweeties for some cacao nibs or unsulphured apricots as soon as Mum’s back was turned. That poor boy trussed up in a collared shirt and jumper. My neck itched just looking at him, skulking along half-entangled in Lara’s mohair poncho. They both pressed themselves into the hedge as a teenage boy came past with an Alsatian pulling on its lead.
Sandro looked so pale and cold. He was only five when Caitlin died. He’d barely remember her. I’d offered to look after him while everyone else went to the cemetery but before Lara could answer, Anna had burst in with ‘No, he’s coming with us; it’s a family day,’ as though there were log flumes and spinning teacups to look forward to instead of a black granite headstone and a swarm of sad emotions ricocheting around the group. I had the uncharitable thought that Anna used their collective grief as another way of excluding me.
It was a relief when Mum bustled in through the front door and I could shut out the Farinellis and the complex tensions cobwebbing between them. She flung her arms around me. ‘Funny being here and not going up them stairs to see Caitlin.’
I shrugged off my irritation that even Mum found it odd that Caitlin wasn’t here.
I helped her off with her coat, wondering whether a Mongolian goat herder was shivering somewhere without his shaggy sheepskin. As she turned to see Sam shouting, ‘Nan!’ from the top of the stairs, I quietly hung it up in the cloakroom. Sam nearly knocked Mum over as he launched himself from the last step. My heart twisted at his unselfconscious hug for her. She immediately conjured a Twix out of her handbag.
‘Missed your old Nan, have you?’
Sam nodded before whisking Mum away to see his bedroom.
When she came down, she said, ‘I’ve always said this house was like a fancy hotel. You should think about taking in guests. That’s a lovely spare room with an en suite. I could come in every morning and cook the breakfasts.’
Mum saw money-making opportunities everywhere she looked. Mend, make, sell, swap… it was how she survived, often finding things in skips to ‘sell at a car boot’. Unfortunately, as one old sewing machine found a new home, a three-legged stool, deckchair or furry cushion crowded into the flat to take its place.