My first thought was, It’s all right. Meg’s sleeping. Only sleeping.
Her cheek had a faint flush, and her hair fell back naturally on to the rubber sheet beneath her head so that the wound was concealed. Her mouth was peaceful and there was not one line on the smooth, youthful forehead.
The policewoman knew, all too well, the many ways in which the bereaved reacted. One was to refuse to believe.
‘The
‘Don’t bother to grieve,’ those peaceful lips might say. ‘I’ve had enough. Battle over. Eh?’
The policeman consulted his notes. ‘She had been drinking in the Bacchus. Too much, according to the reports, and she was asked to leave at approximately half past two. She was seen walking down the road towards the church and knocking on the church door. The witness said he was worried because she was unsteady and he went after her, but by the time he caught up she had fallen.’
I leant over and touched the untroubled, line-free forehead. Then I picked up her hand and smoothed the fingers with their tiny, pearly nails, one by one. Already they seemed waxen, doll-like. ‘Oh, Meg,’ I whispered, and hot tears ran down my cheek. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
As I left they handed me a packet of her things in a plastic bag with a list. One ring, gold. The bracelets. One leather purse, empty. One cotton skirt. The black high heels. And, finally, one cross, gold. Surprised, I held it up between finger and thumb and, caught in the electric light, the chain glimmered. ‘I can’t stand religion,’ Meg had protested more than once. ‘So bossy. So pointless. So vulgar.’
I returned to Casa Rosa and made the first of many phone calls.
Some time later, I’m not sure when, I went into the kitchen. There was the chair in which Meg had sat. The bottles of oil and balsamic vinegar she had used. The coffee machine, which she had taken over.
I touched them. Implements and objects that, only a few hours ago, Meg had also touched.
I did not believe she was dead.
Still later, as the heat shimmered above the tarmac and the geraniums in the pots outside the houses drooped in the sun, I walked past Maria and Angelo, who nodded at me sorrowfully, skirted the tethering stone, with its iron ring for the horses’ bridles, and entered the church. The gloom in the interior was a cool bath, and I swam through it towards the frescos. Instinctively I knew Meg had been trying to get into the church to see them. I reckoned she had felt that you knew where you were with them. Stupid with drink, she had forgotten that the church was locked at night to protect the paintings.
I unclenched my fists, felt pins and needles lick up my arms, and tried to make myself understand. Meg
Then I got into the car and took the road to the airport.
Sacha was in Meg’s room next door and I could hear him moving about restlessly. Will lay on my bed with his arm over his face.
I sat down and took his free hand and held it.
He dropped his arm. He had been crying and he was white with shock and fatigue and he had bitten his lip. It had left a rough, sore patch. ‘I suppose it was bound to happen, one day.’
I climbed into the bed and took him in my arms and held him until he was calmer. Then I made him take some aspirin and stroked his hair.
‘Do you want me to tell you what happened, or would you rather wait?’
He nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Tell me.’
Without camouflage, I described our visit to Siena, our conversation there, and the exchange back at the Casa Rosa. As I reached the end of the story, I felt myself grow hot and cold with shame and regret. ‘Until last night and our quarrel, she was under control.’
‘That was something.’ Will was eager to latch on to anything positive.
‘I’m afraid it was my asking her to find somewhere else to live that set her off. I did try to stop her, Will. I promise you, but I feel responsible.’
He took a while to absorb all the details. ‘Not even you could predict a fatal blow to the head on a tethering stone outside a church in an Italian town.’
‘Even so.’ I looked at the floor strewn with clothes in my haste to get dressed when the police arrived. ‘In the end we were friends. And she knew that you loved her, and Sacha.’ I bit my own lip. ‘I’m sure she knew.’
The bedroom had grown very hot, and the bed was rumpled. I asked Will to get up and led him into the bathroom and made him wash.
I remade the bed, pulling the sheets tight and smooth. I threw open the shutter and let in the night air. I folded clothes and closed drawers.
I went downstairs and put the kettle on to boil. I poked at the tea bags in the mugs and the water turned from amber to brown – the brown that Meg had so despised.
Oh Meg, I thought, with a wild and terrible sense of loss.
‘Sacha?’ I shook him gently. ‘It’s seven thirty and things are done early here.’
He turned to me with big, hot-looking eyes. I swooped down and felt his forehead. ‘You’re ill.’
Sacha was clearly feverish and I ordered him to remain where he was, then went down to take charge of Will, who was wrestling with the stove. ‘Poor Sacha. He’ll feel he’s letting Meg down.’
We drank our coffee on the loggia. Unable to sit still, Will paced about. ‘I like it here, and I like this house. We should have come here with your father.’ He looked away. ‘But I would have invaded the private club of two.’
Surprised, I looked up. ‘You minded. I’m sorry.’
Will decided to view Meg’s body alone, and emerged composed. We negotiated with the police and struggled to short-cut delays. Once the suggestion of foul play had been eliminated, the doctor signed the relevant certificates and we made arrangements for the body to be flown home. Then, it was a question of waiting for the authorities to release it.
Meg was to be buried at Stanwinton. As Sacha pointed out, it had been her home. Working together, Will and I shared the endless phone calls back to England. Mannochie. The funeral director. The vicar. Will had a knack of dealing with emergencies, but with this one he was too tired and sad. Once or twice I had to intervene when he lost the thread.
Will also phoned Chloe and, having told her the news, passed the phone to me. Chloe was almost incoherent. ‘You won’t die on me, Mum, will you, or Dad?
I did my best to calm her, and wondered if we should encourage her to get on a plane, but Will anticipated what I was thinking and shook his head.
‘Poor, poor Sacha,’ cried Chloe. ‘I can’t bear it for him. Tell him I love him.’
‘He’ll ring you,’ I said, ‘when he’s feeling better. I promise.’
Rob rang several times and Sacha staggered downstairs to talk to his father. Will and I retreated out of earshot. When I broached the subject of his father, Sacha said only, ‘He’s left it all up to me. He says he doesn’t feel he should interfere.’
I urged him back into bed and dosed him up. ‘Your father’s trying to make it easier for you by not getting in the way.’
I reported this conversation to Will, who went straight upstairs and spent over an hour talking to Sacha. When I took up more tea, I discovered him sitting on the edge of the bed and a red-eyed Sacha propped up on the pillows. Both of them looked dreadful. I stood over them, and fussed and bullied them into drinking it. After a couple of mouthfuls, Sacha grimaced. ‘Give me the stuff the spoon will stand up in.’
In the morning, Sacha was better but still weak, and agreed without too much argument to remain in bed. I fed him more tea, made him change out of his sweaty T-shirt and insisted on brushing his hair.
‘Thanks,’ he said, leant back on the pillows and closed his eyes.
The police told us, ‘Only two days.’ But this was Italy and two days stretched into three, then four. Meg would have appreciated the joke.
The convalescent Sacha was content to sit it out on the loggia at Casa Rosa. ‘I need to get my head straight,’ he said, and it was clear that he preferred to be on his own.
In contrast, Will was restless, had not eaten much and was sleeping badly. I said to him, ‘There’s something I would like to show you if you’d like to come.’
He showed only a polite interest. ‘Let’s do it, then.’
