When Margo returned she dropped her shoulders and sighed heavily. “Oh dear, she really is losing her marbles. Would you like to stay the night, Alba?” Alba seethed. Margo was treating her like a guest in her own home. Unable to contain her frustration any longer, she opened her handbag and pulled out the scroll.
“I found this under my bed. It must have been hidden there for years,” she said, waving it in the air. “It’s a drawing of Valentina by Daddy.” She held her father with those strange pale eyes of hers. She noticed the Buffalo’s shoulders hunch with tension as she exchanged nervous glances with her husband. Alba was furious.
“Yes, Daddy, it’s beautiful. Let me remind you when you drew it. In 1943, in the war, when you loved her. Do you ever remember her?” Then turning to Margo she added icily, “Do you let him remember her?”
“Now Alba,” Margo began but Alba’s voice rose above hers as she continued to put into words thoughts that had for years fermented in her head. Like wine left too long, they now tasted bitter.
“It’s as if she never existed. You never talk about her.” She coughed to clear her throat and to loosen her vocal cords, but they simply ached with despair. “How can you let another woman obliterate your memory of her? Why such cowardice, Daddy? You fought in the war, you killed men far stronger than you and yet you…you…you deny me my own mother for fear of upsetting Margo.”
Margo and Thomas both stood rooted to the ground in silence. Neither knew how to respond. They were used to Alba’s outbursts but this was unexpectedly vitriolic. Only the smoke from the remains of Thomas’s cigar disturbed the absolute stillness of the room. Even the dogs were too afraid to move. Alba looked from one to the other, knowing that she had let her feelings spiral out of control, but there was no going back now. The words had been fired and couldn’t be retracted, even if she had wanted them to be. At last Margo spoke. Clenching her jaw in order to remain composed, she suggested that this was something best discussed between father and daughter. Without saying good night she left the room. Alba was pleased to see her go.
Alba walked over to her father and handed him the scroll. He took it and looked at her for a long moment. She stared back defiantly. But there was no fight in his expression, just an immeasurable sadness. Such sadness that Alba had to turn away. Without a word he placed his cigar in the ashtray and sat down in the reading chair his mother had vacated moments before. He didn’t open the scroll. He just looked at it, stroking the paper with his thumb, the sweet smell of figs reaching him from the distant past, from a chapter of his life closed long ago.
Alba watched him closely. She saw the young man in naval uniform, like the photograph in his dressing room, with the white scarf, heavy coat, and crested hat. She saw him slimmer, more handsome, happier. There was no deep, unsettling sadness in his eyes, only the optimism that dominates the spirit of the young and the most valiant. There was no disillusion either, for his heart vibrated with love for her mother at a time when their future spread out before them like a sumptuous banquet.
Finally he spoke in a very quiet voice. “You have pushed us too far this time.” Alba was stung. “There is an enormous amount you don’t even begin to understand. If you did, you wouldn’t talk to Margo like that. You were unforgivably rude, Alba, and I won’t tolerate it.” His words were like a slap on the face.
“No, you don’t understand,” she whimpered. “I simply want to know about my mother. I deserve to know. You haven’t the slightest idea what it’s like not to belong. To feel rootless.” He looked at her wearily then shook his head in resignation.
“This is your home.” His forehead creased into deep furrows. “Aren’t I enough? No, obviously not. You have pushed and pushed all your life. Nothing is ever enough, is it?” He sighed and turned his attention once again to the scroll. “Yes, I loved your mother and she loved you. But she died, Alba, and I can’t bring her back. There is nothing else for me to tell you. As for belonging, you never belonged in Italy. I brought you to England at the end of the war. You belong here and you always have. If there’s an obstacle, it’s not Margo, Alba, it’s you. Look around you. You’ve just taken and taken all your life, without gratitude. I don’t know what more you want and I’m tired of trying to give it to you.”
“So you’re not going to tell me about Valentina?” She fought angry tears as, once again, she felt he was pushing her away, shutting her out along with her mother. But she knew the demon on his shoulder was not his conscience, but Margo. “I don’t even know how you met,” she said in a small voice. She saw the muscle in his jaw throb with discomfort. “You’ve never shared her with me. Once it was you and me, Daddy. Then Margo came along and there was no longer any room for me.”