“You couldn’t even get there if you wanted to,” he added. “The forest has taken over.”
“How sad.”
Falco shook his head. “Come. Cosima will be waiting for you.”
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she said, smiling at him. “I understand how hard all this must be for you. Loving someone and losing them, the pain never goes away, does it?” He nodded brusquely and walked back down the hill.
As Falco had said, Cosima was waiting for her in the olive grove, a basket of food in her hand. Alba’s mood lightened when she saw the small figure, still some way off, standing patiently in the sunshine. The moment the child saw her, she waved her hand excitedly and Alba waved back and hurried on, happy to leave the brooding Falco to continue in shadow alone.
Alba suggested they return to the lookout point. Not only was it exceedingly beautiful but she wanted to be near the twisted olive tree where her mother was buried. Cosima waited for Alba to collect her paper and crayons from the house. When Alba returned she took her hand. “What have you got in the basket?” Alba asked, peering inside.
“Apples, mozzarella and tomato panini, and biscuits.”
“Delicious,” she said. “A feast!”
“Don’t you eat as well in England?” Cosima asked innocently.
“Of course not. Italy is famous for its food as well as the beauty of its countryside, architecture, and language.”
“Really?” she screwed up her nose. “Language?”
“Absolutely, you should hear some of the other languages. Horrible, like clashing chords. Italian is like music played beautifully.”
“I don’t like to listen to Eugenia when she plays her recorder. It hurts my ears.”
“Then be thankful she speaks Italian when she’s not playing!”
They settled down beside the lookout point and Cosima bit into an apple. Alba opened the sketchbook and placed a crayon between her thumb and fingers. She didn’t know where to start: head, hair, or eyes. She sat and watched the child for a long moment. It wasn’t so much her features she felt the need to capture but the expression within them. Cosima’s expression was angelic and mischievous as well as slightly imperious. Though, with her mouth full of apple, her cheeks were puffed out like a squirrel’s.
“Are you any good?” the child asked in a muffled voice, chewing happily.
“I don’t know. I haven’t ever drawn before. Not properly.”
“If it’s good, can I keep it?”
“Only if it’s good. If it’s terrible it’s going to the bottom of the sea.”
“Like this apple core,” said Cosima, throwing it as far as she could. It landed on rock.
“Nice try.”
“I don’t like to stand close to the edge. I might fall off.”
“That would be a great shame.”
“Why do you speak Italian?” Cosima took a panino from the basket.
“Because my mother was Italian.”
“Your mother was my great-aunt. Daddy told me.”
“Yes, she was.”
“She was killed.”
“Yes, sadly she died before I could know her. My father married again.”
“Do you like your new mother?”
“Not really. No one matches up to one’s real mother. She has always been kind to me, but I suppose I wanted my father all to myself.”
“I have my father all to myself,” Cosima said proudly, smoothing down her new pink dress.
“You’re very lucky. He’s a good man, your father. He loves you very much.”
As they talked, Alba’s hand began to sketch. She didn’t concentrate, she just let the crayon wander.
“You must miss your mother,” she said. Cosima’s face suddenly turned serious.
“I don’t think she’s coming back,” she said with a sigh, then added brightly, “It doesn’t matter though, does it?”
“You know, when I was a child no one ever talked about my mother. This made me very sad because I wasn’t allowed to remember her. The world of grown-ups can often seem confusing. At least, it was confusing to me. I wanted to be reassured that she loved me and that her dying had nothing to do with me. I didn’t want to feel that she had left me. Your mother had good reason to leave, but it wasn’t because she wanted to leave you. I imagine she knew that she couldn’t take you with her. It was better for you to remain here with your family. She must miss you very much.”
Cosima thought about it, her face solemn. This expression wasn’t good for the portrait.
Alba stopped drawing. “What is she like, your mother?”
The child’s face opened up again and Alba put her crayon to the paper once again.