The Fires of Torretta Page 8

  “Could you get her permanently?”

  Maria shook her head. “No. She is married and soon there will be a baby.”

  “Ask Tomaso if he knows of anyone else, perhaps a young girl. She could come every day and help with the cleaning and laundry. Then you could do all the cooking and have time to rest.”

  Rosamund judged that just attending to all the meals day by day was a full-time occupation for one person, for Maria did not believe that spaghetti or tagliatelli came out of packets from the grocers, nor did sauce come in labelled bottles. She cooked her own pasta and stirred her own sauces as evidently she had been taught to do.

  It had fallen to Rosamund to consult Maria over the choice of dishes, a task which had not concerned her in the professor’s English home, for there the housekeeper took that responsibility.

  Now she told Maria that for the time being she would leave all the menus in Maria’s hands, only informing her when there might be guests or when the family might be out for meals.

  Tomaso, she knew, shopped in the village for fresh meat and fish and those vegetables which he did not grow himself, so it was best left to this conscientious, hard-working couple to continue catering in their own way.

  In Taormina later in the day Rosamund told Stephen that she must buy some reading primers in Italian.

  “I thought your Italian was slightly more advanced than that,” he taunted her with derision.

  “I might even learn better Italian from the books I intend to buy, but I want them for Maria.”

  She told him of her discovery of Maria’s illiteracy. “I think it’s utterly sad that she should go through life at such a disadvantage. Just imagine! All these years and no one has ever bothered to teach her.”

  In a bookshop along the Corso Umberto she selected half a dozen books with illustrations of “The cat sat on the mat” type.

  Stephen had decided to hire a car for a month. “After that I’ll probably buy a secondhand job for the rest of the time we’re here.”

  “I think that would be cheaper in the long run,” Rosamund agreed. “Otherwise you’ll be paying for the hire all the time the car is standing idle in the villa garage.”

  “But I’m not letting Erica drive, especially on Continental roads, and all the hairpin bends up and down the mountains here. She wants to speed along too much.”

  Erica had accompanied her father down to Taormina, but declared she was not interested in car-hire. “I’ve shopping to do and I’ll meet you somewhere.”

  There was no sign of her in the cafe on the corner of the Largo Caterina when Stephen and Rosamund arrived.

  “How much do you know about photography?” asked Stephen after he had ordered coffee.

  “How much? How to press a little knob, having first made sure that I haven’t cut off the head of the subject. After that you send the film to be developed and printed. I had a small camera once, but I gave it away to a schoolboy friend.”

  “I thought of buying a camera for use while I’m here. Not just for the scenery, although that’s worth taking, but Brent tells me that you can learn a lot from your own photographs of earth strata.”

  “But you know all about that already.”

  “Yes, but by marking your own photographs, you can piece them together, as it were, in the way they do with aerial surveys.”

  Rosamund stared thoughtfully at her employer. “So I’m to add photography to my capabilities?”

  He laughed. “It would help.”

  “What sort of camera is the most useful?”

  “Now that I’d have to ask Brent next time I see him.”

  “But couldn’t you take the photographs and have them developed and printed professionally?” she queried.

  He frowned. “It’s really best to do it yourself in these circumstances.”

  She knew he was referring to the possibilities of leakage of information or evidence of theory. On a previous occasion he had generously offered material and notes to a former colleague, only to find that the man’s book forestalled Stephen’s own. Adding insult to injury, Stephen was accused by critics of having used another man’s material without admitting the source.

  Since then he had learned to be more careful and Rosamund knew that he had confidence in her discretion.

  Erica came to the cafe more than an hour late, apologised iii her automatic way, then said, “What sort of ramshackle old car did you pick up?”

  “Wait and see,” advised her father.

  “Oh, quite smart,” she commented when Stephen drove out of the garage and down the long winding Via Pirandello to join the coast road to Torretta.

  He liked the feel of it, he said, and proposed that tomorrow they might go up Mount Etna.

  “I’ve seen a good circular route on the map,” he went on. “Through Randazzo and a place called, oddly, Bronte—like Charlotte.”

  “Do you go through—what was the name of the place, Rosamund? Belpasso? Was that it?” asked Erica.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Probably off our main route. Why do you want to go there?”

  “Nothing.” Erica’s assumed indifference deceived neither of the others.

  “I think Brent mentioned that he lived in Belpasso,” Rosamund said calmly.

  “So of course Rosamund would like to see the town,” Erica added.

  “I’m interested in all the towns on Etna,” returned Rosamund, “Belpasso among them.”

  The morning was fine when the three started off next day. Once they were out of Giardini, the town on shore level immediately below Taormina, the roadside was edged with cherry trees in flower, olives and almond trees punctuated by tall heads of prickly pear. At one point the figure of a woman had been carved out of a huge cypress tree.

  Every town had indications in some way of the black lava that had flowed from various eruptions. At Piedimonte a lava gate had been erected; at Linguaglossa a lava statue. Rosamund had read somewhere that in one eruption, the railway station had been destroyed and a new one built.

  “Look,” exclaimed Erica, who had the map open on her lap. “You ought to go down this road on the left to get to Belpasso.”

  Her father snorted. “Why have you never learned to read a map?” he demanded. “Do you think this car has wings and that I can fly over the top of Etna? That road stops short on the lower slopes as far as I can see.”

  Erica peered again at the map section. “Oh, yes, so I see.”

  Rosamund was interested when they arrived at Randazzo to look at one of the large churches built of lava blocks.

  “It’s a good use for lava,” she remarked, “but it gives a black look to the town.”

  The pavements, too, were usually formed of lava, but the shops were often brightly painted in contrast.

  After coffees at a motel, Stephen set off again and now the landscape became more rugged with jagged lava rocks strewn everywhere on either side of the road.

  At Adrano Rosamund wondered that such flowers and shrubs could flourish in the public gardens where people roamed about and children played.

  “It all looks so inhospitable to growing plants,” she said to Stephen.

  “Surely you know that some of the best wine comes from lava slopes. If the volcano erupts, the vines are destroyed, but that doesn’t stop the growers from planting again in exactly the same place.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that.”

  Erica wanted to know if they were having lunch here or farther on. “I suppose there are other towns and I shan’t be up the top of the mountain and find nothing to eat.”

  “If you’re hungry, buy yourself a bar of chocolate,” counselled her father. “We’re having lunch at another place.” Rosamund caught an expression on Stephen’s face, one that she knew well. Usually it indicated that he was enjoying a secret joke. Now he looked away quickly and pointed out yet another statue hewn out of lava.

  When they returned to the car he said to Erica, “Keep a sharp lookout a few miles on for a left t
urn that goes to Belpasso.”

  Erica grinned at Rosamund in the rear seat. “Ah, now you will get your wish.”

  Rosamund smiled back but said nothing. There was no point in arguing with Erica, who was evidently determined to put on to Rosamund the onus of visiting the town where Brent lived.

  Stephen nearly missed the turning, for it was only a narrow road and Erica had been late in directing him. The town of Belpasso was fairly small and he drove slowly along the main street.

  “Ah, here it is!” He stopped outside a cafe with a sign “Cafe Minerva” and the two girls alighted. “You two go in while I find somewhere handy to park the car.”

  Erica and Rosamund gazed at each other in surprise. Judging from the outside, it did not appear the kind of place they usually frequented for a meal.

  “Why does he choose a place like this?” asked Erica, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  “I’ve no idea—unless Rosamund stopped. An alarming thought had now occurred to her.

  “Unless what?” prompted Erica impatiently. “You don’t think that—that—oh, no, it can’t be—the place where Brent actually lives!”

  “I don’t know. It might be quite different inside.”

  Rosamund was uneasy. If this were Stephen’s notion of a prank, then the sooner she and Erica hurried off somewhere else the better, but at that moment Stephen returned. “Come along. No use standing outside.”

  He hustled them through the entrance. A dozen men at various tables looked up sharply at the intruders. Stephen spoke to a waiter laden with half a dozen plates of food, then led the way through the cafe to a door opening on to a small courtyard. Two iron-topped tables and four or five chairs seemed to be the only furniture.

  Stephen looked dismayed. “I thought—I hope we’ve come to the right place,” he muttered.

  Erica walked about impatiently. “Are we expected to eat in this kind of place?”

  Stephen held up his hand to silence her. “Wait here a minute.”

  “It’s only a—well—a sort of workmen’s cafe,” said Erica crossly.

  “It’s clean,” protested Rosamund. “Why shouldn’t workmen eat in less palatial circumstances than the de-luxe hotels you prefer?”

  Stephen returned accompanied by a waiter. “We’re to sit here for a few minutes while a table is prepared for us.”

  The waiter apparently conjured a table of adequate size from a room leading off the courtyard and laid a cloth and cutlery, glasses and plates.

  “So now what is all this mystery?” demanded Erica.

  “Don’t worry about the meal you’ll have,” her father assured her. “That will certainly be of good standard, but—”

  “Is this where Brent lives?” asked Erica.

  Stephen nodded. “I thought he would be here when we arrived.”

  “He knew we were coming, then?” asked Rosamund.

  “Yes. I telephoned him. I thought that as we were almost sure to pass through this town on our way up Etna, we might meet.”

  Rosamund was surprised. The professor disliked his routine interrupted by casual callers and he was usually considerate towards other people. It was not at all clear to her what motive he had in mind for this snap decision to meet Brent, but she was opposed to any hint of chasing after the man who was Stephen’s tenant. She would have preferred to have been omitted from this excursion. Let Stephen and Erica go ahead and make any kind of tentative arrangement for meeting, but Rosamund wanted to opt out.

  The lunch turned out to be excellent and Stephen’s spirits rose. He smiled at his daughter over the rim of his wineglass. “It wasn’t too bad, was it?”

  “Better than I expected,” answered Erica grudgingly. “But why hasn’t Brent shown up?”

  “He may have been delayed,” put in Rosamund. Personally she hoped he would not arrive until after they had left the cafe.

  “It’s a queer sort of place for him to live.” Erica’s gaze roamed around the walls of the courtyard.

  Rosamund considered it attractive. The windows and doors were painted yellow, there were window-boxes full of flowers and potted plants stood in corners. If Brent wanted to live in a modest little cafe which provided excellent cooking, there was nothing wrong in that.

  Stephen paid the bill and they were ready to leave when suddenly Brent came hurrying out to the courtyard.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” he apologised to Stephen. “I was most unexpectedly delayed and I just couldn’t get down here in time.”

  “Rosamund has been desolated by your absence,” Erica said with a mischievous glance at the other.

  “Really?” His eyebrows rose in disbelief. “And you, Erica? You could hardly eat a thing for worrying about me?”

  Rosamund had flushed at Erica’s teasing remark, but Erica retained her composure. “I never allow minor details to interfere with eating—as long as there’s someone here to pay the bill.”

  Rosamund, watching, saw that his dark grey eyes dwelt with some interest on Erica’s fair-skinned face.

  “She’s not as mercenary as that,” Rosamund tossed the remark over her shoulder to him.

  “Well, have you lunched?” asked Stephen practically.

  “I snatched a bite on the way down,” replied Brent. “Anyway, I rarely eat much at midday. Are you ready to go?”

  Only now Rosamund realised that he was to accompany them up the ascent of Mount Etna. In the car she chose the passenger seat next to Stephen and let Brent accompany Erica in the back.

  “We’d better go soon,” advised Brent. “Quite often clouds come over Etna in the afternoon, whatever the weather.”

  On the way mist often swirled across the road. They were at snow level now and although the roads were clear, large patches of old snow lay humped on the lava on either side.

  “Are we going up to the very top in the cable-car?” asked Erica.

  “Not today. You’d have to start much sooner than this unless you want to be marooned on the summit and freeze to death.”

  They stopped at a restaurant on a flat ledge of land, a favourite halt evidently, for a number of other cars were here.

  “Are you willing to go down into one of the old craters?” Brent asked the two girls.

  “It won’t erupt, I hope, while we’re there?” queried Rosamund.

  Brent laughed. “It’s been very dead for centuries. No danger, I think.”

  He guided the three across several ridges of black lava, sometimes red or even white lumps in places. The slope down to the crater was gentle and not a very steep climb.

  Rosamund gazed around. As it happened only their own party had come down to this crater and she had a momentary vision of being marooned in a lost world. It was an eerie feeling to be walking so close to a spot where centuries ago the earth had ejected fire and smoke and molten lava. The colour of the earth was dull dark red as though every particle had been consumed in the burning and now nothing remained of any former hue.

  Brent showed them a blow-hole in the side of the crater and again Rosamund shivered slightly at the vast depth of blackness below. She moved away to the farther side of the crater and saw that the blow-hole was not central but curved up almost like a crooked spire.

  She looked around to see where the others had gone, but there was no sign of the three. They had probably climbed up to the crater’s rim. She, too, followed the path by which she had descended, but it seemed steeper and rougher. Then a cloud of mist swirled around her, blotting out everything but the ground at her feet.

  She hesitated for a moment. Obviously she must go up and not down, but when the ground no longer sloped, she stood still, trying to get her bearings. She had already noticed before the mist enwrapped her that the crater rim was only a fairly narrow edge. On the outside, away from the centre, there were places where one might take a single step and plunge down three or four hundred feet.

  She called out “Erica! Brent!” but even her voice seemed muffled and pushed back at her. She stooped towards the gro
und, trying to discover where danger lay, but was she now travelling away from the rest of the party? Where would her feet lead her?

  When she had read accounts of mishaps on mountains where climbers were isolated and lost in clouds that suddenly descended, she had sometimes become impatient with their timidity. Why did they not strike out with due care and try to reach safety?

  Now she experienced this terror, this inability to trust her steps in case disaster followed. She stood still and called out again, but her voice had no carrying power and ended up in her throat as a tremulous croak. She turned and thought that the cloud had thinned a little, but perhaps that was only hallucination.

  A vague dark outline appeared and a voice said “Rosamund!” In childish relief she flung herself against Brent. She felt his arms fold around her, and was suddenly very conscious of the hardness of his body against her. Then she quickly disengaged herself.

  “You’re trembling. What happened?”

  “I—I was frightened. The mist—I couldn’t even see where to walk—”

  He took her hand and once again she was only too aware of the effect on her of his physical touch. In half a dozen paces they were in a clear patch. From the ridge she could see the restaurant, the cluster of cars.

  She almost snatched her hand away, but he gave no sign and now the other two were close at hand.

  “We must come up here again,” Stephen was saying. “I’ve been up before when I was here some years ago, but then I wasn’t looking for the same things. Now I’m searching for a new kind Of evidence that will help my theories.”

  “So you’re going to make the evidence fit the theory?” queried Brent with a laugh.

  “Where did you get to?” Erica inquired of Rosamund. “We lost sight of you.”

  “It was nothing,” answered Rosamund. “I stayed down in the crater for a while.”

  She glanced covertly at Brent, almost entreating him to say nothing of her panic, but his answering look seemed hard and perhaps contemptuous. She had contempt for herself as well and resented her own lack of courage that had resulted in her ending up in his arms, even if only for a moment or two. That was more than enough to give him the impression that she longed for his caresses. She switched her mind from the fact that during that brief moment of clinging to him in the panic of being rescued, she had indeed longed to feel his kisses on her lips, recklessly uncaring of any reactions from Stephen, Erica or any other witnesses.