Papa Georgio Read online

  The ground outside was bare earth. Green, speckled salamanders shot in and out from stone to stone and scuttled through the undergrowth at the edges. Sometimes you’d turn round just in time to see the point of a long tail disappearing into a crack in the earth or the wall of the Sacchetti’s shop.

  On the lowest level were more caravans and tents, splashes of orange, green and white against the sandy-coloured ground. Far in the distance, when I looked over the edge, no more visible than a blue haze, was the sea.

  I’ve found a place right at the top of the camp where you can get away from everyone, where there’s a sort of ledge, like a seat at the edge and you can sit and look over at everything. So I’ve brought my Log up to write. It smells nice up here, herbs and things.

  Where’s Grandpa? I’ve been wandering around bouncing a tennis ball for ages but there’s no one to play with. Maria Grazia’s not here and I feel very cross.

  Why does he have to keep going off? He could at least have taken me with him! What’s happened to all the adventures we were supposed to be having together?

  I stopped writing, my mind drifting, gazing over at the trees, the distant sea… Things buzzed round me and there were noisy cicadas somewhere nearby. I didn’t like being on my own for too long. That was when I started thinking about Daddy…Parents are like a set of double doors. When one is lost, there’s a huge gap which lets too much air in, icy and heartbreaking.

  I wanted Grandpa. I wanted Fizz. Now Fizz wasn’t here, I realized that we shared something that neither of us had put into words. Something I couldn’t name, but it was there. I could feel it.

  When Grandpa came back that evening he was not, as we expected, looking roguishly excited and carrying something he’d bought from an Italian dealer. Instead, he looked weary and sad. He said he was sorry to have been away for so long, but he wouldn’t tell Brenda where he’d been. He just said, ‘Oh I’ve been having a look round.’

  Later, when I was tucked in behind the grey curtain I heard a sniff, then a sob. Just one quiet sob.

  ‘I’m sorry my Little Dear,’ I heard Grandpa say. ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about. But there are certain things I came down here to do and I have to do them. There are memories here my dear and I have to lay them to rest. I shall tell you in due course, I promise.’

  His voice was so sad that I couldn’t get it out of my mind. For a long time I lay in the dark with my eyes open, hearing the crickets making their scraping noises between the dry stalks outside.

  The next morning I stepped out into sunshine and into happiness.

  I wandered round the camp as it came to life, sucking an orange so that the juice ran down my chin and wandered up to the edge of the top level to look out. A salamander shot along the top of the fence, stopped for a second, its throat pulsing, then plunged away down the fence post. When I looked over, a wonderful, almost unbelievable sight met my eyes. I blinked. Was I seeing things? No – it was true!

  The Ship of Dreams had appeared since the night before and was parked right down below on the third level! A red plastic bucket stood outside at the back, but there was no sign of anyone. They must have come in late last night and still be asleep.

  Still holding my orange peel I skipped back to our caravan. Fizz is here, Fizz is here!! I was fizzing inside myself with every skip.

  Brenda was laying the table with bread and cherry jam and there was a smell of coffee.

  ‘They’re here – the Chubbs!’ I gabbled at her.

  For a second I saw her glance across at Grandpa, who was just packing away his shaving things. Both of them had a funny look in their eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ Brenda said, carefully. ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Nice lad that,’ Grandpa said, reaching up to put his wash-bag into the overhead cupboard.

  ‘Just go carefully with them,’ Brenda said, without looking at me.

  What did she mean, carefully, I thought crossly. Why the warning? But I wondered if they heard anything the night of the row. I didn’t think they had but I wasn’t sure. I ate my bread and jam, twitching with impatience to see them, although very nervous too, after what I had heard that night.

  ‘Go on with you,’ Brenda said kindly as I crammed the last piece of bread into my mouth.

  And I was off, tearing down to the lower level just in time to see Maggie coming out with Clarey in her arms.

  ‘Hello!’ I cried, skidding up to her. ‘Is Fizz up?’

  Maggie turned from closing the door and I got a shock, seeing the blank, tired look on her face. She had no make-up on and there were dark rings round her eyes. But she made herself smile, as if strings were tweaking the ends of her lips.

  ‘Hello there darlin’! So you’re here as well are you? Fizz’ll be pleased to see you. Hold on there…’

  She opened the van door again and hissed, ‘Fizz! Janey’s here to see you!’

  Turning back to me she said, ‘Archie’s still asleep. We didn’t get in until late.’

  She was as friendly as ever, but there was something about her today. Something felt wrong.

  Fizz came leaping out in his shorts and T-shirt, his hair all tousled. At first he looked solemn, and sleepy, but then a big smile spread across his face.

  ‘’Ello!’ he said.

  And then I felt better. It was all going to be all right.

  And for the first couple of days, it was.

  V.

  Grandpa and Brenda were acting very kindly to Fizz all of a sudden.

  The next day Grandpa took us into the nearby town called Pozzuoli.

  ‘Pots-Worly,’ Fizz said, in his Manchester accent and Grandpa laughed. A nice laugh though. Grandpa was kind, even if he did have some weird prejudices.

  We walked round streets full of loud voices, church bells tolling and the blare of horns from cars and motor scooters which pumped out blue fumes. Everyone seemed to shout at one another. We saw ladies offering bunches of flowers to statues of Mary. We ate spaghetti and ice cream.

  The best place was the fish market, run by a man with a huge moustache.

  ‘Look at those!’ Fizz’s voice rose with excitement. There were dead fish lying glassy-eyed on piles of ice, but the best things were the rows of wooden tubs, all painted pale blue inside and full of swirling fish, glittering in the sunshine. There were shellfish like coloured pebbles, tiny silver ones darting and – best of all, the lobsters and octopuses.

  ‘They look very cross,’ I said as a huge, orangey-grey octopus glared up at us from amid a tangle of legs.

  ‘Look – this one’s escaping!’ Fizz cried, by the next tub. He seemed so excited about it. ‘Go on mate – you can do it!’

  One long tentacle slithered over the side and felt around, searching for the ground like an elephant’s trunk, then another and another until the body plopped out. Then the octopus ran astonishingly fast to the edge of the harbour with the man who owned the stall started shouting and running after it and Fizz just behind it cheering it on. When the octopus dropped slitheringly over the edge back into the sea, Fizz gave a roaring cheer, arms up, beaming all over his face. ‘Score! He’s done it!’

  The stall owner cuffed him round the head, but he was smiling too and his moustache made his smile look even bigger.

  When we got back, Brenda surprised me by inviting Fizz in for cake and I realized it was the first time Fizz had been inside our van.

  ‘It’s nice, this,’ Fizz said, looking round as we sat at the table.

  I couldn’t believe he really liked it. ‘It’s boring. Not like yours.’

  Fizz gave me a patient look. ‘It’s normal.’

  ‘How are your mother and father?’ Brenda asked. She was at the back of the van, pouring water into the yellow plastic bowl.

  ‘OK.’ Fizz looked out through the open door, following the slender dash of a salamander. He had gone very remote suddenly.

  ‘I haven’t seen your father about much.’ Brenda said, drying her hands. ‘He’s not ill, I hope?’
r />   ‘A bit. He’s resting inside.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Brenda presented us with the bag of sewing. ‘Why don’t you show your friend the patchwork?’

  Oh cringe! Embarrassment! I mean, Fizz was a boy! He wasn’t going to want to see boring old needlework! But it was too late because Brenda was already spreading it out over the table. Even I was amazed to see how much of it we’d done, all the bright colours unfurling in front of us. To my surprise, Fizz seemed fascinated. He examined the back to see how we’d stitched it together and stroked his hand thoughtfully over the garden of colours.

  ‘That’s right nice, that is.’ His tone was warm, with an edge of longing.

  ‘We’ve got this horrible green stuff to use,‘ I said, patting the folds of the murky green material. I was trying not to sound proud, although that was what I felt all of a sudden. I whispered. ‘It’s like the colour of snot, isn’t it? We don’t know what to do with it!’

  Instead of laughing, Fizz moved it about, playing with it, then laid a strip of it, folded long and thin, like a green dart across the bright colours.

  ‘It’s a sally, that’s what.’ He looked at me very seriously. ‘A salamander.’

  Brenda and I stared at it. As soon as Fizz said it I could see that that was exactly what it was meant to be.

  ‘If we could just get the shape right…’ Brenda said.

  And I saw just how it might run, shimmering across the flowers and swirls and leaves in the background.

  ‘Fizz,’ Brenda said, ‘that’s a marvellous idea! Clever you – you could help us draw it.’

  ‘From one of your books,’ I added.

  ‘Make us a pattern,’ Brenda said.

  Fizz lit up. ‘I’ll work on it,’ he promised.

  And for the first time, I realized, I really loved Brenda. She did fuss around a lot, but really she was a nice, nice lady.

  VI.

  We spent a lot of the rest of the day playing. Or at least Fizz’s version of playing.

  He took me to the toilet block. As campers wandered back and forth to the taps with water containers, pounded their washing in the wash bins and the toilets gave off their sputtering flush every few minutes, Fizz trailed round the pale green walls with his book of moths and butterflies. The enormous moths we found flattened against the wall were drawn in by the lights at night, where they fluttered like crazed scraps of paper. In the daytime they clung to shadowy bits of wall, confused and blinded.

  ‘Look – ‘ Fizz pointed at a patterned grey and black moth, a bit like a knitted jumper. ‘Black Arches – it’s quite common, that one and oh, wow – look at that!’

  I followed his excited beckoning to find a moth parked like a grounded aeroplane on the wall at the entrance to the gents’ toilets. It was tan coloured, tinted with pink.

  ‘Elephant Hawk Moth!’ He went up very close, his dark hair hanging round his cheeks, peering intently, in awe.

  Brenda was right, I thought as I watched him, though I felt disloyal thinking it. Fizz really was a bit peculiar. Though he was just as lively, there was something more intense about Fizz than the last time I’d seen him. I felt cold suddenly, in the blue shadow of the toilet block, and fed up with his night-loving moths.

  ‘Let’s go exploring,’ I suggested.

  And to my surprise, Fizz immediately agreed. He often did this, as if he was in a dream world of his own, but you could quickly wake him out of it. ‘OK. I’ll go and put the book back.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ I said, because I wanted to see the other Chubbs.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Fizz called, running off. ‘Be back in a minute.’

  ‘But I want to come!’

  I ran down the slope after him and he didn’t see me following until he was almost at the van. He turned on me, fiercely.

  ‘No! Don’t come with me! I told you not to!’

  I jerked to a halt, Fizz’s words cutting into me so hard I caught my breath. Fizz opened the door of the Ship of Dreams, flung his book inside and shut it again while I stood like a statue. I felt so rejected. Why was Fizz shutting me out of his family, when they’d been so kind before? I dragged my arm angrily across my eyes.

  ‘What’s up?’ Fizz said irritably.

  ‘Nothing.’ To my fury my voice had gone squeaky. ‘I just don’t know why I can’t come and see everyone.’

  ‘My Dad’s not very well, that’s all,’ Fizz said. Then, as if a door had closed in his mind, he shifted into a completely different mood, pulling on my arm, all enthusiastic.

  ‘Come on – let’s go!’

  I cheered up immediately. This was more like the old Fizz.

  We dodged round the camp, spying on people in between the caravans and tents and coloured awnings. A German lady offered us some squares of bitter chocolate and we managed to say, ‘Danke,’ because that’s all the German we knew apart from, ‘Guten morgan’ and ‘Ein, Svei, Drei, Fier, Funf…’

  Then, on the top level of the camp we discovered a wooden gate.

  ‘Let’s go and see…’ I pulled it open as there was no chain to keep it closed.

  ‘D’you think it’s OK?’ Fizz said.

  ‘Course,’ I told him breezily. After all, Grandpa George seemed to wander about wherever he liked and no one ever minded.

  The path led us into a grove of orange and lemon trees and looking up in the shady green, you could see a few last fruits still hanging up there among the leaves.

  ‘Look –’ I picked up an orange from the ground. It was ripe and not mouldy, and we shared it, deliciously bright and juicy.

  We walked on until we came to a little tumbledown cottage with green shutters and peeling paint. Outside several chickens were stalking up and down, one of them a bossy looking cockerel with glossy green feathers. He looked at us as if to say, ‘What are you doing here in my kingdom?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone here,’ I whispered.

  But then, from behind the low wall close to the house, came a low snorting noise which made us both jump.

  ‘What’s that?’ We started to get the giggles as we tip-toed over. The wall turned out to be the edge of a sty, and inside was the most enormous, pink, bristly pig. Her snout was wiffling around over a slimy mess of heels of bread, and cheese rinds and orange peels. When she noticed us there, her head shot up in greedy suspicion, eyes narrowed behind straw coloured lashes. Then she wiggled her nose at us and gave a loud, throaty grunt.

  We both laughed.

  ‘Come here, pig!’ Fizz leaned over and the pig grunted again, teetering on her trotters.

  ‘She’s so fat! What d’you think her name is?’

  Fizz considered. ‘Esmerelda.’

  ‘Queen Esmerelda…’ I said.

  ‘D’you think she likes music?’ Fizz said, hoiking his mouth organ out of his pocket. ‘Here, Queen Esmerelda, I’ll serenade you.’

  He had just cupped his hands round the thing and started to play when we heard a bark behind us and a black and white dog with a feathery tail came up and sniffed at us before charging off again towards old man with a stick.

  ‘Oh no!’ Fizz whispered quickly putting the mouth organ away. ‘We’ll be for it now. I bet this is his house.’

  The old man hobbled as far as the door of his house, apparently wearing slippers. He stopped and waved his stick at us. I thought he was angry for a moment but then he called, ‘Giorno!’ which was like saying hello. He had stubbly cheeks and brown watery eyes and when he smiled, you could see he had no teeth. Then he shuffled off into his cottage.

  ‘He didn’t seem to mind,’ I said.

  But Fizz had already lost interest. He’d gone off into one of his far away moods and was staring down at Queen Esmerelda with a blank look on his face as if he had shut everything else out.

  I felt like asking him if he was OK, but I could see he wasn’t and I didn’t say anything. Because though I was ashamed to admit it, I didn’t want to hear whatever it was that was making him sad. Despite everything, I wa
nted to carry on believing in my fairytale of the Chubbs as the ideal happy family with their bright colours and their sweets and their talking parrot. A place where no sadness was allowed.

  VII.

  LOG BOOK

  I’m in a bad mood! I’m brimful furious with everyone. So what if Mum reads this - maybe she needs to know how I ‘m feeling once in a while. And I’ve got to tell someone or I’ll burst or go off my rocker!

  I’m up at the top of the camp again in my special place where you can look out through the fence at all the cars and caravans. I can just see the Ship down there – not that anyone cares where I am or notices. They’re all far too busy.

  And there was nothing at the Poste Restante! Not one measly thing. Mum’s too many miles away from anywhere up in the Himalayas to manage sending any letters. And nothing from Charlotte. Some friend!!

  The Chubbs haven’t been outside for two days, except for Fizz and he was like a thundercloud and would hardly speak. I can’t knock on their door – just can’t. It’s as if there’s a sort of fence round all of them – an electric one. I saw Maggie yesterday by the wash bins rinsing out her clothes. She did her best to be friendly but her face was pale and tired. I asked if Archie is getting better, but all she did was stare down into the scummy washing water.

  She said, ‘Oh I expect so.’ And, ‘Thanks for asking, darlin’.’

  But she seemed so far away. She wasn’t really talking to me, not properly.

  And worst of all, Grandpa George has all but deserted us and keeps going off on his own. He’s not bringing anything back with him - no bronzes or dogs or any other antiques to sell. Just once he brought a bottle of wine, with a funny straw thing round its bottom. And he’s gone off somewhere in his head as well. He just sits there in the evenings, outside on a deckchair with a tumbler of red wine and his pipe and stares at the sky. If I say anything to him he just says, ‘Yes, my Little Dear’ and all that sort of thing. But he’s basically not here, and I‘m fed up with it. With the whole blinking blasted lot of them!