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- Herausgeber: Lexa Dudley
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The Whispering Wind is a moving story of two lovers, set on the beautiful island of Sardinia, where Elise goes on holiday to escape a loveless and violent marriage. Whilst there, she meets and falls in love with Beppe, a local Sard. Despite religious and cultural complications, they embark on a romantic and passionate affair. Beppe shows Elise his island and introduces her to the welcoming culture of the Sardinians, and Elise soon falls under the spell of both the island and its people. But after weeks of blissful happiness, Elise has to return unexpectedly to England to face all the problems she had been so desperate to leave behind...
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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Copyright © 2013 Lexa Dudley
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or
by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction
outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park,Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RXTel: (+44) 116 279 2299Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email: [email protected]: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
ISBN 9781780886213
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Indice dei contenuti
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Dedication
Season’s Love
INTRODUCTION
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
EPILOGUE
For Kit
To all who love the island of SardiniaAnd those who will fall under her spell in time.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank everyone who encouraged me to finish this book.To Charlie Wilson for her excellent editing and understanding.
To Mel for her friendship and all her help when everything crashed.
To my friends in Sardinia for all their patience with my unending questions about their island over the years.
And finally to my husband, Kit, who has lived the book and taken me back to ‘my island’ every year for research.Thank you.
Lexa
Dedication
Su Fischidu de su BentuTo the Spirit of Sardegna:
In some other place and in some other time people have lived and loved. Their lives touched by those who have a profound effect, the one upon another, where souls and kindred spirits entwine for eternity.
Season’s Love
Softly on a heavy blossom laden morn
when fragrant breezes did gently blow,
warmed by a sun’s silent fiery glow
their love, on a whispering wind, was born.
Spring wooed their tender love to flower,
a bloom with divine enchanted power.
Summer gave her early sun at dawn
kindling the flame of passion to ignite;
nurturing it under her dazzling light,
turning fields of green to golden corn.
Amber autumn brought warm languid days
spent together in winsome, carefree ways.
But winter sent only icy winds to mourn
for cherished dreams once more to bring
the sweet return of their awaking spring.
INTRODUCTION
People who have grown up with mobile phones and the Internet have no concept of what communication was like in the late 1960s. Phone calls had to be booked through the exchange, taking hours if not days. The Italian post, never known for its reliability, was only marginally better than in Sardinia. The fact that one local postman was imprisoned on the island for hiding some letters for seven years because, he didn’t know where to deliver them, gives some idea of the problem.
Sardinia has always been known as ‘the forgotten island’, and perhaps that is still true today. Certainly, in 1969 it was well off the tourist route. It can become an itch that can’t be scratched, as it gets under your skin. The Sards call it Mal di Sardegna; an illness which is helped by regular visits to the island, which has a wild magical beauty all of its own.
The Sards themselves are a fiercely independent people who have survived continual occupation of their homeland with a tremendous dignity and pride. If I can convey to the reader a small amount of the charm and magic of this island and its people, then I will be more than happy. In the words of my late and dear friend:
‘I have one ambition or rather hope: to communicate to others my faith in Sardinia, my loving solicitude for this land to which many people have applied the much abused but still accurate title of the unknown island, this land which so few
people really try to know and to understand. But anyone who looks beyond certain off-putting or banal aspects of this island will finish up loving it.’ Marcello Serra
Barumini is a large Bronze Age monument known as a Nuraghe for which there is no parallel anywhere in the world, and is described as I first saw it, but since then the authorities have adopted a scorched earth policy to stop the grass from growing between the stones, creating a rather grey and bleak monument. It was inscribed on the UNESCO list of World Heritage Sites in 1997 as Su Nuraxi di Barumini.
Many of the roads travelled on by Elise and Beppe are now motorways, thanks to EU funding. But if the traveller moves off these roads, he will still discover the ‘old Sardinia’, with its small villages and friendly people.
All places are as I describe them, except for Santa Cella, and the villa at Pula which are imaginary along with all the characters. Any likeness to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.
I first visited Sardinia in 1972. It was love at first sight, and I still feel the same way about the island and its people after all these years. To me, it will always be the ‘enchanted island’, and long may it remain that way.
Lexa Dudley, 2012
PROLOGUE
A gentle breeze fluttered through the peach grove, but gave no respite from the midday sun. The rows of peach and lemon trees offered no shade, and the branches of the tall cypress trees surrounding the orchard seemed to trap and intensify the relentless rays, creating an overwhelming heat that pervaded everything. Only the strident call of the cicadas broke the unnerving quiet that descended over the parched land.
One exception to the dryness was a small area at the end of the garden where an old standpipe dripped, making the ground damp. This area was bordered by giant prickly pears, and growing through their great spines were masses of pink and white wild roses, together with honeysuckle; their strong sweet scents mingling languorously in the oppressive air.
The rows of peach and lemon trees, planted with military precision, gave way to a mantle of green vineyards, which in turn blended into fields of golden barley, before finally fading into the hazy, distant mountains that rose from all sides of the Campidano.
This hard-baked Sardinian soil, that has drained the strength of all who have worked it since pre-Carthaginian times, produces men as tough and durable as the ancient land itself, and the two brothers working in this grove were no exception. The elder of them leaned heavily on his shovel and surveyed the work that the two of them had done. He watched his younger brother as he put the finishing touches to the hoses and turned on the water from the huge standpipe in the centre of the grove, allowing the water to gush into the newly dug trenches before being swallowed up by the thirsty earth.
He had promised to help in the peach grove today, but now he was tired, having lain awake most of the night listening to music, drinking whisky and trying to fight the demon depression that lurked in his mind. He had kept his promise to
his brother, but now he needed to sleep.
‘Are you alright? You look awful.’ asked his younger brother looking concerned.
He didn’t reply. He was busy undoing the rough bandaging on his normally well manicured hands. His mind went back to the time when, as a child, he had worked beside his father in this same grove; when he returned home at night his mother had bathed his hands in salt water to harden them and ease the pain. He shoved the bandaging into his pocket and sighed as he put his hands up to his brow to try to stop the relentless pounding in his head.
‘I don’t know how the hell you stand this heat all the time.’‘Probably because I don’t drink like you do and, I am used to it.’
The elder brother shrugged and walked to the bottom of the grove to collect his shirt. Nearing the hedge of prickly pears, he became aware of the suffocating, heavy scent coming from the roses and rampant honeysuckle. The sun dazzled between the leaves of the overhanging lemon trees and the ever-changing light was mesmerising. The summer heat closed in on him and he felt weak. His feet turned to clay as he became rooted to the spot and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as an icy chill ran down his spine. He felt unable to breathe and a dull, sick feeling welled up in the pit of his stomach.
Coming toward him through the now blurred lines of trees, and moving slowly, as if in a dream, was a young woman, her arms outstretched to greet him. Her long, golden hair flowed over her shoulders, glinting in the sun, and her white cotton dress seemed to intensify the bright light. He put his hands up to shield his eyes from the glare as the girl came nearer. He turned to see if his brother was there, but seeing no one he looked back and was surprised to see that the young girl now appeared to be beside him. He knew her. He knew her so well that all his senses cried out as he stared at her once familiar face.
Stirred memories and lost dreams rushed in on him from days long gone, and a deep yearning filled his soul. He found it difficult to catch his breath with his heart pounding as if it would burst. The world about him began to spin and tears sprang to his eyes.
‘I’ve come back, darling,’ she whispered, laying a soft, cooling hand on his fevered skin.
Everything fell out of focus as he reached forward, in desperation, to embrace his long-lost love, crying out as he fell to the ground.
‘I always knew you would!’
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Sardinia April 1969
The plane touched down on the hot concrete runway and taxied to the hanger. The strong smell of aviation fuel hung in the heat of a Mediterranean afternoon, and the air was thick with fumes. The deafening whirring of engines hit Elise as she stepped onto the aircraft steps. She stood out from her fellow passengers with her long blond hair and pale complexion, and her short blue cotton dress showed off her neatly shaped legs. She followed the crowd of excited locals into the hanger, where they hurried to meet their relatives or friends. Elise collected her case and found a young porter to carry it out of the building, and then she stood looking around for someone to help her.
At that moment, a small man stepped forward to shake her hand.‘Signora Raynesford?’ he asked with a polite bow.
‘Si ,’ she replied, nervously.
‘Me Efisio Fozzi,’ he said, stabbing his barrel chest with a short, stubby finger. ‘I take you to villa. Do you have a pleasant journey? I hope you enjoy your stay. To follow me, please.’
The words were run together with such well-rehearsed charm and speed that Elise didn’t have time to answer him, but followed, meekly, as he took her suitcase from the porter and set off to find the car. Efisio bundled the case into the
boot of the Fiat and then rushed round to hold the door open, to allow her to climb into the passenger seat. Once inside the car, she put her shoulder bag down by her feet and took a quick survey of the airport.
Efisio was talking to the man in the next car and although Elise was unable to understand the Sard language, she realised they were talking about her as they kept looking at her.
Elmas was such a small airport, its main building a large Nissen hut with a tin roof and huge open doors. It was teeming with waves of people as some left and others arrived, all in the one building. Families, some of them carrying insulated food boxes in order to constantly feed their broods during their journeys, came and went, welcoming arrivals or bidding vociferous farewells to those departing. Above all the chatter and bustle could be heard the constant whirring propellers and whining engines of the aircraft parked on the runway, waiting to take off.
Efisio climbed in the car beside her. He was a short, tubby little man with a paunch overhanging the wide leather belt which miraculously held up a faded pair of brown cotton trousers; he looked like a Toby jug, Elise thought. His shirt was immaculately white and straining at the buttons. His head was a shiny, weathered, bald pate with a fringe of dark hair, and his face round and swarthy, from which shone a pair of eyes like two brown beads.
‘Your husband Signora. He no come?’
‘No he has had to go to America. How far is it to the villa?’ she replied in her near-perfect Italian, before he could bombard her again with another stream of words.
‘About thirty minutes, signora,’ he replied. ‘You speak Italian, which is very good. There are few visitors, who speak the language,’ he replied, obviously pleased that he was not going to have to battle on in his broken English.
Efisio started the car and with a sudden lurch they shot forwards on the start of a most nerve wracking drive through the outskirts of Cagliari. He pointed out the sights of interest with great enthusiasm, but still managed to sound like a tape recording; having driven this route so many times before, usually speaking over a babble of disinterested visitors, it had become automatic.
‘This is Via San Paulo. Up on your left is Colle Tuvumannu, one of the oldest sites in the area. On your right are the salt flats.’
At this point, he negotiated a sharp left-hand bend and before Elise could recover he had made another turn to the right. She bit her lip, as she held tightly onto her seat. They came to a road junction and took a right-hand fork which doubled back on itself, narrowly missing an approaching lorry. The blaring of horns drowned out the insults exchanged by the two drivers.
Crossing a narrow iron bridge, barely wide enough to take two vehicles, Elise saw that the buildings fell away on either side, and below, in the narrow, river-like opening, fishermen were busy preparing their boats. She glimpsed the great ribs of an old boat lying in a sleepy yard and the round tower of a small dwelling. A little further on, the bridge continued over a wide estuary where men and boys stood close to the railing, fishing the brackish water below, while men in boats helped others who were wading in the shallows, collecting mussels in large hoop-shaped nets. The smell of the fresh sea air filled the car and Elise smiled to herself.
The car sped along the coast road, with the sea rolling in on the left and a huge expanse of salt water flats with great flocks of pink flamingos on the right. The sun was dipping fast, daubing the land and seascape with its fiery rays and turning the pools of water blood-red.
Elise thought that the little man appeared to be afraid of the approaching dark, for he was driving like the devil possessed, gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles stood out white against his sallow skin. They raced on through Pula, with its neat homesteads, vineyards, and orange and lemon groves.
A small crossroad lay ahead, and Efisio signalled that he was turning left. The tarmac road ceased and they bumped down a dusty track, full of potholes and boulders. A farmhouse seemed to jump by on the right. Elise noticed as they bumped past that the family was busy unloading a donkey and they waved at Efisio as the car shot by. There were small
vineyards and even smaller olive groves.
They passed a small church that rested under the shade of an old olive tree and, suddenly there was a high, plastered wall. The car swung perilously through the old gateway, swerved around another huge, gnarled olive tree and came to a shuddering halt.
‘We have arrived, signora,’ announced Efisio proudly, and in a somewhat surprised tone added, ‘you were very silent, signora. I frightened you, non?’
‘Non,’ lied Elise, greatly relieved that the journey was over. ‘Non, not at all. Thank you.’
Efisio heaved himself out of the car and came round to hold the door open for Elise. As she stepped out, a woman appeared in the doorway of the villa. She was round and happy looking, with a dark complexion. Her glossy, black hair was wound into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in a white blouse and a long, dark maroon skirt, which was covered by a freshly laundered white apron. She beamed as she came forward offering her hand to Elise in greeting.
‘Signora Raynesford. I am Maria Fozzi. Welcome to Sardinia. I hope you will be very happy here. We were expecting you and your husband.’
‘He has been called away to America, so I decided to come on my own.’
Elise was ushered into the villa where the smell of cooking, polish and wood smoke greeted her.‘Welcome Signora.’ repeated the woman smiling.
‘Thank you, Signora Fozzi. I am sure I will be very happy here.’
‘Ah, you speak excellent Italian. How wonderful. You must be hungry, signora? If you are ready I will show you your room. Efisio will take up your luggage, and when you have freshened up, I will serve you supper.’
Elise smiled and nodded.
They were standing in a large room, running the full length of the villa, which served as hall, sitting room and dining room. Despite its size, it had a cosy atmosphere. She took in the cheerful rugs that adorned the terracotta tiled floors and the hand-woven tapestries that softened the starkness of the white-washed walls. On either side of the large fireplace
the walls were covered with shelves of books and ornaments. She sighed contentedly; reading wouldn’t be a problem here, she thought with pleasure.
Maria led the way across the room to the stone staircase that turned on itself as it climbed to the second floor. Ornate iron railings ran up the side of the stairs and on around the stairwell, forming a gallery that overlooked part of the room below. Through the railings rambled the largest cheese plant Elise had ever seen, its dark shiny leaves contrasting
with the dull white of the plaster.
At the top of the stairs, Maria stopped at a door leading off the gallery. She opened the door into a corridor area which had a large built-in wardrobe on the left and a door into the en suite bathroom on the right. Walking through the short corridor, Maria turned on the light and stood aside to let Elise into the bedroom.
‘This is your room, signora. Tomorrow you will see it has beautiful views of the sea from the French windows.’‘Grazia, Maria. It’s lovely.’
‘We could eat in about an hour; would that be alright with you, signora? I thought perhaps anti-pasta, followed by spaghetti, with a little meat and salad to follow?’
‘No, please, just spaghetti for tonight. I am tired, and won’t eat a lot. Please, signora.’
Maria nodded and left. Efisio, who had followed directly behind them, brought in her suitcase and placed it on a large wooden chest.
‘If you need anything, signora, please let us know.’ And bowing politely, he too left.
On her own again at last, Elise took stock of the new surroundings that were to be home for the next eight weeks. She plumped down on the bed and looked around her. There were two windows, both shuttered.
On the right-hand side of the room was a pair of French doors, also shuttered. The walls were painted white, with tapestries hanging on them and a cluster of paintings of coastal scenes. On either side of the grand, hand-carved double bed were chests of drawers. Maria had placed fresh flowers in a small vase on one, and a basket of fruit on the
other. A large fan turned slowly above the bed, giving a gentle movement of air. The whole room gave an air of freshness and felt inviting.
It didn’t take Elise long to unpack her case, wash and shower. She sat on the edge of the bed to dry herself, and caught her reflection in the mirror. The bruises on her upper arms and back were turning a blue-yellow colour, and red welts stood out on the remainder of her pale skin.
The night before last came back in vivid detail.
William, her husband, who was a representative for a large oil company, had always travelled a lot, and to begin with she had gone with him. But she had grown to hate the endless cocktail parties, with the inane gossip, and had finally stayed at home. This time it had been different, two months on the Mediterranean island of Sardinia in early spring sounded wonderful, and she had begged William to allow her to rent a villa near the oil refinery at Sarroch so she could join him there. He had been reluctant, but she had gone ahead and arranged it all, and was looking forward to a holiday.
But the night before, William, returning late after a night at a private gaming party, had woken her and demanded that she let him have money to pay off his huge gambling debts. She had refused. The money her father had left her was dwindling fast, as her husband lost it on the roulette tables or betting on the horses. She had stood firm, but it had cost her dearly. He had hit her repeatedly with his fists and beaten her with a leather belt until she had managed to escape
into the bathroom and lock the door.
He had continued banging on the door until his drunken shouting woke the housekeeper, who came to see what was happening. William had sworn at the woman, and told Elise he was going to America as his plans had changed, then left the house cursing at the top of his voice. Elise had been appalled and frightened by his reaction. He was moody and petulant, but he had never been violent before and she had been shocked by his outburst.
The following morning, Elise had told the housekeeper she was no longer needed and paid her two months in lieu. She had rung her dear friend and solicitor, James Bennet, to arrange to stay with him that night, and it had been he who suggested that she go to the villa alone and enjoy some peace away from everything. But it wasn’t until now, in Sardinia, that she felt really safe.
Elise sighed heavily, and having finished drying and dressing, she went rather timidly down the stone staircase to the dining room area. There was a large homemade table at which the single place setting on the far end looked rather lost. Maria bustled in and told Elise to be seated; she obeyed. Efisio arrived with a carafe of red wine and a basket of freshly baked bread, while Maria set a huge plate of spaghetti in front of her.
‘Buon appetito,’ they chorused, and stood watching to see if everything was to her liking.
Elise sipped the dark-red wine and then started her meal, conscious of the two pairs of dark eyes taking in her every move.
‘The spaghetti is delicious, as is the wine,’ she told them, at which they departed, beaming, leaving her alone to enjoy her meal.
Suddenly feeling hungry, Elise still couldn’t do justice to all the pasta that Maria had piled on her plate. On her return Elise explained, as politely as she could, that she wasn’t used to eating quite as much, adding that what she had eaten was superb. The Sardinian woman seemed happy with that and added that she had enjoyed cooking it.
The fire in the sitting room looked inviting, but the journey from Heathrow to Milan, then on to Alghero and finally Cagliari, had been tiring. Elise knew that if she sat in front of the warm embers, she would be asleep in no time; so she said goodnight to Maria and made her way up to bed. Tonight, she hoped she would sleep peacefully away from London, William and her unfulfilled marriage. But tiredness rapidly overcame her, and she soon dropped into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
Elise woke to the sound of someone whistling outside her window. It was a momentary shock to find she wasn’t in her bed in London, with the rumble of traffic as a constant background noise. The realisation that she was on her own, at peace, from William and away from his anger, made her smile and she sighed contentedly.
Slipping out of the sheets, she crossed the room and opened one of the shutters opposite her bed. The light was bright and the sun was showing the promise of a long, hot day. It highlighted the huge bourganvilia that clambered over the plastered wall, making a vivid show in the incandescent light. The whistling continued, but Elise couldn’t see who was finding the morning so exhilarating.
Crossing to the other window, by her bed, she carefully opened the shutters. Below was the courtyard, surrounded by old buildings with uneven, ochre-coloured tiles and white-washed walls, all shaded by the huge olive tree that Efisio had so narrowly missed on their arrival the previous night.
Behind the low building was a vineyard, and it was the young man working there who was responsible for the whistling. Elise watched him for a moment. He was tall and dark, and seemed totally absorbed in his work. Afraid that she might be seen, Elise moved away from the window. She suddenly felt weak and realised she must still be tired and a bit hungry.
She went to the French doors and threw them back against the wall. They opened onto a small, narrow balcony with its own wooden staircase leading to the garden below. A little river ran down to the beach and a bridge crossed it to a cottage on the other side, which was half hidden by the tall reeds. In the distance she could see a spit of land running out to the sea, topped by an ancient tower.
Elise looked down to see that this side of the villa was completely covered by the prolific ramblings of another huge bourgenvillia that entwined its way up the walls and onto the roof. Eager to explore, Elise showered and pulled on cotton jeans and a shirt, making sure that none of her bruises could be seen. She was about to descend the stairs when the sound of raised voices made her stop.
‘Maria, I haven’t time to take a lonely English woman on boat trips, or any trips at all come to that.’‘Hush!’ said Maria. ‘She will hear you, and she speaks excellent Italian.’
The conversation then continued in Sardu, so Elise was unable to understand what was said. She waited until there was a break in the conversation and went down the stairs. Her heart sank a little because, once again, her single place setting looked so lonely, there at the end of the huge table.
‘Buon giorno, signora. I hope you slept well?’ said Maria, suddenly appearing from nowhere, making Elise jump.‘Yes, thank you, Maria.’
‘Would the signora like an English breakfast, with tea or coffee?’‘Thank you, a continental breakfast would be lovely. Please.’
Coffee came, hot and strong, with fresh crusty bread, brioche and peach preserve. Elise took her coffee and sat by the French window. All the shutters were thrown open, giving a view over the terrace to the sea beyond. She finished her breakfast and crossed the room to inspect the books in the large bookcase by the fireplace. There was a generous selection of books in different languages.
Maria entered to clear the table.
‘There are lots of books on Sardinia that you might find interesting, signora.’
When Maria left, Elise searched the bookcase and found a large copy of Sardegna Encantevoile. She spread it out on the table and became so absorbed in the photographs of the Sard people and their various customs, together with the intriguing places of the island, that she didn’t hear Maria’s return, and the sound of her voice made Elise jump again.
‘S’Cusa, signora, but you would be better outside in the sun. You look pale and thin. Take the book with you and Efisio will bring you a drink. After the first of May, you can go for a swim, and that will build up your appetite,’ commanded Maria in a soft, motherly fashion.
‘Why after the first of May?’ asked Elise, obviously curious.
‘We have a large festa then. It’s the island’s saint’s day, the Sagra di Sant’ Efisio, and on that day we have the official opening of the lido at Poetto in Cagliari, so you can swim,’ she said.
‘Do I have to go there to swim?’ ventured Elise.
‘Oh no, but no one swims before the season opens. At least, none of the local people, not unless they are completely mad. The sea is far too cold. Now, you go out in the sun before it gets any hotter,’ Maria added, smiling.
Elise went to her room and changed into a brightly coloured bikini, tying a striped cotton kikoi around her waist. Ever since she had been to Kenya with her father, when she was in her teens, she had always carried these with her. The oblong piece of material was worn by all the Kenyans, and she found them better than a dressing gown. Finally, she pulled on a long silk top over it all making sure that none of her bruises could be seen; she picked up a towel and returned downstairs to collect her book. But Maria had beaten her to it; the book was already outside on a long, low table on the terrace. Elise smiled Maria obviously intended to mother her during her stay and tears sprang to her eyes at the kindness. It was all so different from her life at home, and the thought of William made her momentarily catch her breath.
Stepping out from the cool of the shaded balcony into the comparative heat of the morning, Elise plumped down on a padded reclining chair and once more began to read about the island and its people. The sun shone brightly from a
cloudless sky, but it never seemed too hot because a pleasant breeze sprang constantly from the sea.
She found it hard to concentrate and she thought of James, her long-term friend, who had always been there for her. Since the death of her father, he had become the only man she could trust, but she knew that he wasn’t interested in her, or any woman for that matter. She was glad she had taken his advice and come down here on her own.
Efisio broke into her thoughts when he arrived with freshly squeezed and lightly sweetened lemon juice in an ice-frosted glass, crammed to the top with tinkling ice. The sound alone was cooling, and the semi-sharp taste made Elise feel refreshed.
‘Would it be possible to have my lunch outside on the terrace?’ she asked.‘Of course, signora,’ replied Efisio.
In no time, Maria was outside laying the table and presently the meal was brought out, together with a carafe of rosé wine.
‘Thank you, Maria, that is wonderful, and very kind.’
Whatever it is about Mediterranean countries that produce the need for a siesta after a good meal and wine, it certainly caught up with Elise that afternoon; so with little difficulty, she once more climbed the stone stairs and entered the coolness of her room. She lay on the newly made bed and was soon fast asleep.
It was past four when she awoke. Sitting up drowsily, she decided to wash her hair as it was lank and sticky from the heat. The coolness of the shower’s final rinse as the water splashed over her head and body was refreshing, and she gasped as the cold water flowed through her long hair. She dressed, grabbed her comb and headed out through the French doors to the balcony, and then down the outside staircase to sit by the river.
The sun shone on the white sand, making it hot under her bare feet as she hurried to the water’s edge. She searched for a spot to sit where the reeds were thin and she could see the still, dark water slip slowly by on its reluctant way to the sea. The cooling breeze coming from the sea blew through her hair as she combed it into place.
She watched the swallows as they dipped and rose about her, collecting mud for their nests, or feeding on the midges that hovered above the smooth, gliding water. The movement of the river was so slow that the only ripples on its surface came from the swallows as they dipped their wings or beaks into the water; or shivered as the breeze hurried over the surface. The reeds were reflected in the river, together with the overhanging trees, giving it the appearance of a huge, dark mirror. The trees and the reeds trembled in the breeze, while the cicadas chirped their grating song, accompanied by the gentle wash of the sea on the nearby beach and the relentless chatter of the ever-present sparrows.
Elise’s hair was soon dry, so she decided to walk along the beach towards the point with the tower, the one she could see from her bedroom window. The sand was still hot, so she walked along the water’s edge, allowing the small waves to wash over her feet, enjoying the feeling of the sand and water on her bare skin.
Her mind went back to holidays in Wales as a child, and she suddenly realised why Sardinia seemed so familiar to her. It was just like the beaches of Wales, with the long stretches of sand, rocky headlands, small bays and sunlit coves. She remembered how her father would take her along the water’s edge, searching for things that had been washed up with the last tide. The walks together on the cliffs, picking wild flowers she would later press and label. He would always photograph the flowers and tell her both their Latin and common names. She smiled as she remembered how her mother had chided her father for allowing her to collect so many little treasures.
Elise reached the end of the beach where the sand gave way to stones and rocks. The little bay fell back, only to open up into a much larger one which was impossible to see from the villa. The bay stretched in a broad sweep for miles and
at the far end of the point, which ran out to sea, was the round tower she could see from her room. She would ask Efisio or Maria what they were when she returned to the villa.
She turned to retrace her steps, and was surprised to find that she couldn’t see the villa at all from where she was; it was well hidden behind the heavily wooded area that grew so close to the beach. She sauntered back slowly, stopping every now and then to pick up a shell or pretty stone that caught her eye. She loved the fact that she could do as she pleased without the fear of ridicule or criticism from William. She sighed and wondered, not for the first time, why she had married him.
As she ambled on slowly, savouring the peace of the place, Elise let her mind wander back over her life. After her father’s death, James had been moved to Scotland with his firm. She had found it difficult in London on her own. She hadn’t wanted to go back to the country and her mother. She met William, with all his obvious charms. He was tall, spoke a number of languages including German, French and Italian. In fact they often spoke Italian together when they didn’t want others to know what they were saying. He had treated her like a woman and although ten years older than her they seemed to have a lot in common. They had got engaged in a whirlwind of romance. James had travelled down from Scotland to try to persuade her against it, but she had gone ahead; much to the delight of her mother, who believed William to be everything a woman, could want in a man. Elise had insisted that James give her away, much to the disapproval of both William and her mother, but she had won the day. William had chosen Kenya for the honeymoon and it all seemed so wonderful. How had she got everything so very wrong?
She reached the villa just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the great mountain range that lay in the distance. The whole scene seemed to take on a technicoloured appearance, with muted shades of purple and green and a blazing crimson sunset. The cicadas were still chirping in the reeds and trees, and somehow they sounded as if they had
recruited outside help for the evening and night chorus, for they seemed twice as loud when accompanied by the local frogs. However, the sparrows were now, at last, silent in the trees. A breeze sprang up to rustle through the reeds and
trees once more. With the setting sun, the air took on a slight chill, and Elise shivered. She quickened her pace, pausing for a moment at the doors that opened onto the terrace, where she left the shells and pebbles she had collected in a neat pile.
It was warm inside the villa where Efisio was busy lighting the evening fire.‘That walk has certainly bought some roses into your cheeks,’ he said.
‘What is that tower on the point further up the beach, the one I can see from the bedroom window?’ asked Elise.‘That’s Nora. The tower was built as protection against Mohammedans raiders. It is known as Coltellazzo, or
sometimes San Efisio. Below is the very ancient town of Nora, with its Phoenician and Roman remains.’
Again, Efisio sounded like the tape recording. He was obviously well practised in answering visitor’s questions.‘It’s all in the books,’ he said, looking at Elise, and grinned. ‘Well, you know what I mean,’
At that moment, Maria came into the room and began to lay the table. Efisio nodded at Elise and left with the empty log basket.
‘You have some colour in your cheeks,’ she remarked.
‘Yes, so Efisio said.’ Elise paused, and then went on hesitantly, ‘Maria, where do you and Efisio eat your meals?’‘In the kitchen; why do you ask?’
‘Would it be possible for me to join you? Would it be an imposition to ask if I could eat with you? Would it be a problem?’Maria stared at Elise with some surprise.
‘But you’re a visitor, signora. It is not right for you to eat in the kitchen with us! That is not what you pay for.’
‘If you don’t want me to, I quite understand,’ said Elise slowly, suddenly feeling awkward. ‘It’s just that… well… if I’m to stay here for weeks, I shall be very lonely on my own; and besides, I shall never have a chance to see what the Sard people are really like, and I need to practise my Italian. If at all possible I would much rather be with you and not
regarded as a visitor. However, it’s up to you… or perhaps you could eat in here?’
‘Signora. We would very much like you to join us. However, I have to warn you: if you eat with the family, it can be very noisy,’ Maria said, ‘Would you like to start tonight?’
‘Yes, please, Maria,’ replied Elise, and then added: ‘If you have any mealtimes when you don’t want me, all you have to do is say so. Thank you very much.’
Elise ran up the stairs two at a time. Mealtimes would be something to look forward to from now on.
After showering and dressing in a white blouse and a long cotton skirt, Elise collected the book on Sardinia from the sitting room and went to join Maria in the kitchen. It was a pleasant and homely place, with a long, pine table in the middle around which a number of ill-matched pine chairs were arranged. It reminded her of her grandfather’s farmhouse kitchen and all the warmth there. A stove stood in one corner, with two pots simmering away on it.
Elise put her book on the table and crossed over to the stove.‘Posso?’ she asked Maria with her hand on the lid.
Maria nodded and Elise lifted the lid. A cloud from the fragrant aroma of tomatoes and herbs came up to meet her. She peered into the other pan. This one contained a similar mixture, though not quite as thick.
‘That one is for tomorrow’s sauce,’ said Maria, pointing to the second pan. ‘I’m cooking it today and then will leave it overnight to cool, as it always tastes better. I cooked the other yesterday. See how concentrated it is?’
‘It looks and smells out of this world,’ affirmed Elise. ‘What time do you usually eat?’‘Not until half-past eight or nine, but if you are hungry, we can have it now.’
‘Thank you, but I’ll eat whenever you do,’ replied Elise, and she settled down at the table to look at her book.
‘There are a lot of questions about the island I want to ask Efisio.’ her finger poised over a photo of one of the coastal towers.
‘He’s not the one to ask. You need to ask Beppe,’ replied Maria.‘Who is he?’
‘He is a friend who works at the villa. He lives in the flat at the end of the vinery. You can see it from your room. He looks after the vines and generally helps here.’
‘I think I saw him this morning. He was whistling very cheerfully. But I am sure he is far too busy to answer any of my questions.’
‘Yes, that was him,’ said Maria, giving Elise a sideways glance.
‘He has gone to his village at Santa Cella, to celebrate his brother’s birthday. They have all gone.’‘All?’ echoed Elise. ‘Who is all?’
‘Well. We have two sons and a daughter. We all live in the cottage across the river.’‘I saw it this morning. It looks rather sweet.’
‘Sweet it may be.’ Maria moved her plump shoulders expressively. ‘It’s a little cramped too, but we manage. We all eat over here in the kitchen, unless the guests disapprove. They are good children, and we are truly blessed. They all help when they are not working. And work is hard to find on the island.’
‘What are their names?’ enquired Elise.
‘The eldest, who is like his father to look at, is called Ignazio. He’s eighteen and works part-time at the cantina in Pula, and is training in viticulture. Then there is my daughter, Margherita; she is sixteen and they say she looks like me,’ said Maria, with a note of pride. ‘She helps me here when I am really busy. Then there is Predu. He works on the neighbouring farm whenever he can.’
‘And who does he look like?’ asked Elise.
‘He is like my brother and nearly as tall as him already, though he is only fourteen.’‘Will I be in the way if I come to eat with you when they all come here?’ ventured Elise.
‘Oh, signora. You will be very welcome, as long as you don’t mind the terrible noise. As I said, it will be a bit rowdy, but it will make it easier for me.’
Efisio shuffled into the room. He looked surprised to see Elise sitting at the table.
‘I asked Maria if I could eat with you,’ she said uncomfortably. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’‘Maria told me, signora. I’m very pleased,’ he replied, his manner rather belying his words.
Elise, determined to break down his resistance, said, ‘Maria and Efisio, will you please call me, Elise? That is my first name, and if I am going to be with your family, you can’t keep calling me “signora” all the time.’
The two Sards looked at one another.‘What is the matter?’ asked Elise.
‘We’re not used to such openness from strangers,’ said Efisio. ‘Foreigners always like to give the orders. After all, an English couple staying last year told me, in no uncertain terms, when they couldn’t understand our attempts at English, that they couldn’t speak Italian and why should they? They had won the war, and it was time the Italians stepped into line.’
‘Efisio replied in Sardu,’ cut in Maria, ‘that he was not an Italian, and he has been rather cool towards all English after such an outburst. But you are a completely different character, and you speak Italian; perhaps that is the difference,’ she added.
‘Thank you, Maria, but do you mind?’ asked Elise turning to Efisio.
‘No, signora. I don’t mind. I would be delighted,’ said Efisio, his brown eyes lighting up with his warm smile. ‘And now, would the signora – would Elise – like something to drink?’
Elise smiled at him.
‘Yes, please. Is it your local wine?’Efisio smiled and nodded.
Maria busied herself with the cooking, while Elise settled down with her book and enjoyed the wine given to her. Efisio sat himself at the table and hid himself behind the local newspaper: l’Unione Sarda. The silence was broken only occasionally as Maria chattered to her husband or he read something from the paper. Although Elise found little
difficulty in understanding their Italian, the Sardu they spoke together was something quite different. Even so, she sensed they were talking about her by the smiling glances that they both gave her from time to time.
‘Dinner in twelve minutes,’ Maria announced at last.
Elise looked up from her book; she had been lost in it for nearly an hour.
Efisio rose to lay the table, excusing himself as he spread a freshly laundered cloth in front of her. Earthenware plates were set at each place, together with the cutlery and glassware. Efisio collected a large jug from the side and went out to the vinery, returning with it brimming with the dark local wine.
‘It’s homemade in our cantina,’ he said proudly. ‘We grow the grapes and press them here ourselves.’‘Is it the same as the wine we drank earlier?’
‘No, and not the same as the visitors have either. This is younger and better. Beppe and I make all the wine drunk here in the villa, but some is for the visitors, and this is for the family; and as you are to be with the family… well… try it,’ he said, smiling awkwardly.
Elise was touched by his genuine gesture of friendship, and returned his smile. Efisio said grace and they tucked
into proccutto and melon then Maria’s spaghetti with the rich tomato sauce, topped with a liberal he [...]
