Chapter Eight

So, Dear Reader, time has moved on. Night has moved in to day. The Villa Fatiscente and its inhabitants are returning to their lives, for life must go on even in the midst of death. Adolfo has taken the sheep up to the pasture, Rita has packed her grandchildren off to school and has even manage to persuade Monica to get up and help with the laundry. Dino is back at Signore Cappella’s showing young lad called Franchino the ropes and Giacomo is down on the market, trying to convince the ladies of the town that the perfume he on sale today is as good as if not better than the original. All is right with the world. Well almost.
Father Jonathan revved the engine of his little car and slammed it in to second gear. The engine screamed in protest and the front wheels spun, kicking up clouds of dust as the tyres tried to find some purchase on the steep gravel track. The car lurched forward a few metres and then slid sideways, Father Jonathan fought with the steering wheel and tried to get the car back on course, the tyres dug in and the car began to crawl forward. “Thank you.” Said Father Jonathan to no-one in particular, no sooner had the words left his lips than the car began to slide backwards down the track, loosing him what little progress he had made, he instinctively grabbed the hand brake and pulled it on as hard as he could. The engine stuttered, juddered and then stalled. The car ground to a halt at an angle across the narrow track.
Father Jonathan sat for a moment, his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes closed. Then calmly and carefully he opened the car door and climbed out. The dust had begun to settle and he walked around the little car, summing up the situation.
After a moment he stopped, lifted his cassock slightly and ran at the back of the car, “Impudens est leno,” he screamed as he took a swinging kick at the rear bumper, “es mundus excrementi,” he kicked again, “es stercus,” another kick, “canis filius,” and another, “cunnus.” This last one seemed to do the trick, not for the car, but for Father Jonathan. He stepped back and brushed off what dust he could from his cassock; then he went round to the side of the car and climbed back in to the driver’s seat. Releasing the handbrake he let the car roll back down the slope and reversed it in to a small pull in about half way down the slope. He stepped out of the car, locked the doors, put his sunglasses and biretta and set off on foot up the track.
It was a hot morning and he was not dressed for strenuous exercise, not that he ever dressed for exercise, not that he ever exercised. After about ten minutes, which seemed more like half an hour to the overweight, red faced and panting Father Jonathan, he sighted his goal, a white washed farm house with red terracotta tiled roof, on the brow of the hill. He glanced at his watch, it was just after half past eleven hopefully the occupant with be up.
He entered the court yard and a few chickens scattered in his path, clucking as they went. The yard was littered with odds and ends, a rusting car, its doors hanging open; a pile of junk that consisted of old bicycles, steel and copper pipes and tangles of wire. Against the front wall of the house were stacked various boxes and crates filled with empty bottles.
He walked across the yard to the front door and tried the handle, the door as he expected it would, opened and he stepped in to the cool interior of the kitchen.
The sight that greeted him did not surprise him, he had seen it many times before, but it still made him shiver. The room was a mess; it had actually gone beyond mess and seemed to be heading for tip via clutter, chaos, confusion and disarray. Every available surface was covered in empty pizza boxes, dirty plates, used mugs and glasses. Those that were not covered in the general detritus of daily life were covered with equipment, artist’s materials.
Half finished canvases, some no more than daubs and splashes of colour, lent against the cupboards. Jars and pots filled with drying, hardening brushes stood amongst the crockery. Wooden palettes and a few of the plates were smeared with patches and blotches of colour, some blobs were raw and straight from the tube, others were mixed together.
Father Jonathan picked his way carefully through the shambles; he winced and shuddered as his foot stuck to a particularly nasty patch of something on the floor. He avoided looking too closely at what ever was growing in one of the mugs on the kitchen table. He eventually reached the bottom of a narrow set of stairs that led up to the first floor; he stopped and called up the stairs, “Dan, Dan…?” He stepped up on to the bottom step and tried again, “Dan, Daniel?”
“Yes Father Jonathan?” the voice came from behind him and Father Jonathan nearly fell off the step as he spun round.
“I thought you would still be in bed.” Father Jonathan steadied himself against the wall and then stepped back down in to the kitchen.
“No Father, I was up at the crack of dawn, well about an hour ago anyway.” Daniel Wakefield stepped out of the doorway and in to the kitchen, he spotted a gap on the table and plonked a dirty enamel bowl in to it, “I was just sorting out the goats.”
Daniel made his way round to the sink, picked out two of the least dirty glasses and began to rinse them under the tap. Father Jonathan watched him closely; Daniel was in his early forties and might have been classed as handsome if he tidied himself up. His longish, curly hair, was almost grey, and his and his unshaven face, deeply lined. He stood by the sink in a paint splattered t-shirt, cut off jeans and a pair of seaside flip-flops, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this morning Father?”
“Signora Marcello.” Said Father Jonathan, he pulled out a dining chair, looked at the seat, and thinking better of it, pushed the chair back under the table.
“Ah, the good Signora Marcello.”
“Yes, the good Signora Marcello.”
“What is the old cow moaning about now?”
“The old… Signora Marcello is rather upset; it would appear that yesterday you… fired her.”
“Did I?” he looked around the kitchen and then spotted what he was looking for. He began to cross the room.
“Yes, apparently she called here yesterday afternoon to collect your laundry and you err… told her to leave and never come back.”
Daniel uncorked the bottle he had spotted and poured some of the red wine in to the two glasses, “Oh I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I’m sure you did.”
Daniel passed one of the glasses to Father Jonathan, pulled out a chair, shoved the pile of drawings on to the floor and indicated to Father Jonathan that he should sit, “No, I would never say that, I would never tell her to leave and never come.” He pulled out another chair and sat down himself.
“Well, no, you didn’t. I believe your exact words were, and I quote Signora Marcello here, ‘fuck off you old witch, fuck off, fuck off. Get your dried up, maggot ridden womb off my fucking land and don’t bother fucking coming fucking back, you fucking old hag.’ I may have missed a fucking or two out there, but I think that was the general gist.”
“That sounds more like me.” Daniel had finished his wine and was pouring himself another glass, “more wine Father.”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself, it’s not bad. Go ahead, try it.”
Father Jonathan took a sip, “Mmm… not bad, where did you get it?”
“I made it; I know I was surprised as well. Claudio helped, showed me what to do, I brought a load of grapes whole sale, but he reckons I should plant some vines, grow my own…”
“Dan, if we could get back to the matter of Signora Marcello?”
“Ah, yes. Look if she says I said that, then chances are I did, but in my defence, the old cow probably deserved it.”
Father Jonathan shifted a couple of the things on the table and put his glass down, “Daniel…”
“If you’re going to go all priestly on me you can fuck off as well. I’ll call you Father, but that’s because I respect you as a friend, not as a representative of god.”
“I’m not going to go all priestly on you; I have more sense than to try that mumbo-jumbo on you. I’m talking to you as a friend.”
“Oh fuck, that’s even worse, your not going to organise an intervention are you?”
“Good god no. If you want to drink yourself in to an early grave, then that is your choice, but you have to remember that you live in my parish and your actions affect my parishioners and if they’re upset they come to me, ‘go sort out your mad Englishman or my husband and sons will.’ So, for my sake, will you stop insulting and firing the women I send over to help you out?”
“Well then, you shouldn’t send over nosey old fucking witches then.”
“I’m afraid that appears to be one of the job qualifications, it goes as they say, with the job.”
“But why do they have to be so old?” Daniel picked up the wine bottle and seemed to be surprised to find it empty.
“Again it goes with the territory and in your case they are the only ones who are willing to take the job, especially with your reputation and on the wages you can afford to pay.”
Daniel had stood up and was trying to pull a crate of bottles from under the table, “There was that one young girl, something Franchino?”
“Ah yes Signorina Maria Franchino, what an interesting little episode that was. That is the only time I have actually feared for my lie.”
“Why?” Daniel uncorked another bottle and began to fill his glass, “You hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“I had in the eyes of her parents. I had left their daughter, their only daughter, their virginal only daughter, in the hands of the mad Englishman.”
“I don’t see what all the fuss was.”
“That’s the problem Daniel, you never see the problem. You leave other people to do that for you.”
Daniel took a drink of his wine, “I did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong, nothing wrong, you asked a sixteen year old catholic girl if she would take her clothes off.”
“I only wanted to paint her, good god I’m in the country that virtually invented the nude.”
“Yes, but the nudes in question are always someone else’s daughter. Not the good daughters of my parishioners.”
“Okay, I’ll admit that might have been an error of judgement, but god she was beautiful.”
“Yes, I know, it’s quite surprising when you consider her parents.”
The two men looked at each other and shared a smile. Daniel hunted around in his pockets and on the table and eventually found his pipe and tobacco. He knocked the pipe bowl on the side of the table and a small pile of ash fell to the floor.
Father Jonathan watched and then said, “Look at the way you live Dan.” He gestured with his arm to indicate the state of the kitchen. Daniel looked around and feigned surprise. Father Jonathan continued, “It’s no laughing matter Dan. Look at this place; you need someone to help keep this place tidy. It’s a wonder you haven’t caught some nasty disease, you’d be safer living on the council tip.”
“Don’t worry yourself Father, the alcohol kills the germs.” He drained the glass and refilled it, “Come on Father, drink up.”
Father Jonathan held his hand over his glass, “As your parish priest I have to show concern for your welfare, as you friend I am truly worried.”
“Well don’t be, I’ve lived this long and I don’t intend shuffling off this mortal coil and joining the choir invisibule just yet.” He lit the pipe he had been filling and the air filled with the foul stench of cheap tobacco.
Father Jonathan’s eyes began to water and he tried to waft the smoke away with his hand, “When the last time you ate, and I mean properly?”
“Err… I think I had a pizza the other day, or it could have been the day before.”
“Right,” said Father Jonathan, standing up, “you’re coming with me. Signora Franchino will have lunch ready soon; we can eat and slag off England and its narrow minded middle class hypocrites.”
“Do I get to call Tony Blair a cunt?”
“If you feel you must.”
“Good, I’m in.” he rubbed his hands together, “I’ll bring the wine.”
“Bring your washing as well; I may be able to persuade Signora Franchino to bung it in the machine for you.”
The two men left the house and walked across the yard, Father Jonathan carrying two black bin bags of dirty clothing and Daniel carrying a wooden crate containing six bottles of his home brewed red wine. Daniel stopped and looked around the yard, “Where’s your car?”
“It’s down at the bottom of the hill.”
“Why didn’t you drive up here?”
“I tried; you really have to do something about that track leading up here. How anyone gets up here is beyond me.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I bought this place. It’s privacy.”
“Well there’s privacy and then there is inaccessibility,”
“Well it certainly stops any unwanted visitors.”
“I imagine it stops a few of the wanted ones as well.”
“Probably, but as you’ve proved, on more than one occasion, if people want to see me they find a way.”
The two men set off down the steep track, the midday sun was hot and the two men walked in the silence borne of a long friendship. On reaching the small car the two men stowed their burdens in the boot. Daniel took one of the wine bottles out of the crate, “This one travels with me.” He reached in to his pocket and pulled out a waiter’s friend, he removed the cork and took a swig from the bottle, “Come on then Father, let’s go and find out what Signora Franchino has prepared for you.”
They climbed in to the car and after some Latin curses Father Jonathan managed to turn the car round and they set back off in to town. They journey did not take long, the roads were quiet. Only mad dogs and two Englishmen would venture out in the midday sun. Soon they were pulling in to the little square and parking in the shade of the group of trees outside Father Jonathan’s house. As they approached the front door, weighed down by their loads, they were greeted by the heady aromas of cooking. They breathed in deeply and let the scents fill their nostrils.
“It smells good.” Said Daniel.
“Dan, will you promise me one thing.”
“I’ll make no guarantees, but I’ll try my best.”
“Don’t upset Signora Franchino.”
“Why would I do that.” Daniel said, raising an eyebrow.
“She still hasn’t forgiven you for the business with her daughter.”
“Perhaps if I offered to paint her?”
“That’s exactly the sort of comment that will cause trouble.”
“Okay, I’ll be a good boy; I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
“Thank you. You won’t have to do it for long; she normally serves lunch and then goes home to feed her own family.”
They entered the house and headed towards the kitchen, they were met in the hallway by Signora Franchino coming out of Father Jonathan’s study. She stopped and looked at the two men. Before Father Jonathan could say anything she spoke, waving a tomato sauce covered ladle at Daniel and addressing all her comments to Father Jonathan, “Why, may all the saints preserve us, is that man in this house?”
“Because Signora Franchino, ‘that man’ is a parishioner and a friend and I, as his priest have invited him to dine with me; and would you do me the honour of calling him Signore Wakefield.”
“The devil has no need of a priest.” She made a big show of crossing herself.
“Signora please, Signore Wakefield is to be treated with respect. He has apologised for the misunderstanding with your daughter, and I would hope that you, as a good catholic, would find it in your heart to forgive him as would our Lord Jesus.”
Signora Franchino crossed herself again, “forgive me Fatha,” She turned to Daniel, “Signore forgive, some times I speak without thinking.”
“It is I who should be seeking forgiveness,” said Daniel stepping forward, “I deeply regret the incident with your daughter, but she has such beauty that I, as a painter, could not pass up the chance to capture her likeness on canvass so that all may have a chance to see it,”
Signora Franchino stood for a moment, hands on hips, and considered Daniels words, “Well, she is a fine looking lass, I’ll give you that. But you had no right to ask her pose… well… like you did.”
“As I said, I’m sorry for that, but I can see from whom she inherited her looks.” Daniel placed the crate on the floor and stepped forward; he reached out, took Signora Franchino’s hand and kissed it. Father Jonathan thought he saw her blush.
“Yes, well…” Signora Franchino said, “Lunch will be ready in a moment.” She turned and started towards the kitchen.
Daniel reached over and took the black bin bags from Father Jonathan, “Signora, if you would be so kind.” He held the bags out towards her.
She stopped and looked at him, “Your laundry I suppose, Signora Marcello had enough of you has she?”
“Something like that.” He replied his best boyish grin on his face.
“Put them in the ‘Utility’ room I’ll sort them out latter.” She turned to Father Jonathan, “Where would you like to eat fatha?”
“In the garden please Signora Franchino.” Father Jonathan was still not sure about what he had just witnessed. Had Signora Franchino allowed herself to be soft soaped by Daniel?
And there Dear Reader, for the moment we shall leave them, because quite frankly I am bored to death of them. They are nice chaps but they really having nothing else to say. I need to try and get back to some sort of plot.