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Authors: Isobel Chace
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awful saying such a thing when she knew quite well that she would never give Mario anything . But she couldn’t allow herself to be driven meekly back to Mario’s house either. She had to go back to Naples—and to Pearl.
The Signora’s eyebrows rose. “Do you want to give him something?” she asked in a deliberately neutral voice.
Ruth felt the burning colour leap to her cheeks. “It’s—it’s customary,” she mumbled.
The Signora came close to grinning. “What a good idea! What did you have in mind ? ”
Ruth cast about in her mind, feeling more and more miserable by the minute. “I don’t know,” she said at last.
“A gold pen?” Lucia suggested. “You must forgive me for asking, but have you much money with you?”
“Enough for that,” Ruth grunted. “Could we go somewhere more central and have a look at some?” The Signora was only too glad to fall in with such a plan. Ruth felt like a traitor. If only the older woman didn’t look quite so much like the cat who had swallowed the canary! If only she could bring herself to dislike her! And if only, oh yes, if only she could bring herself to dislike Mario instead of feeling weak in the stomach every time she thought of him!
“I saw a shop near the harbour,” Ruth made herself say just as if she had only just thought of it.
“That’s where we go!” the Signora agreed eagerly. “Wherever you say!”
She thrust the car through the narrow streets with determination. The pedestrians flattened themselves against the walls as they passed and a stall of melons collapsed under the sheer pressure of people. Some ragged children rushed d own the street, the stolen melons in their hands. The stall-holder ran after them, puffing and fuming in the heat. He shook his fist at Signora Verdecchio and, looking a trifle dismayed, she came to a stop.
“The streets are too narrow—” she began to explain.
“Then drive your car somewhere else!” he advised her, his pudgy flesh trembling with anger.
“I’ll help you pick the melons up,” Ruth offered eagerly in her broken Italian.
A smile spread over his face as he recognised a foreigner. “Then you do accept full liability?” he demanded.
Signora Verdecchio stepped out of the car, a non-stop spurt of Italian issuing from her. Ruth would have loved to have stayed to hear the end of the incident, but she knew that she wouldn’t get a better chance. If she were to escape, this was her opportunity.
She ran as hard as she could and found herself in the Piazza Kalsa, a fine square behind the Porta dei Greca, with its densely populated alleys, full of sailors and fishermen whose wives are famous for their lace-making and embroidery. The Kalsa is the most typically Arab part of the city and there were delightful little courts that Ruth would have loved to explore. As it was, she ran hither and thither, looking for the way to the port, but there seemed to be no end to the narrow alleys, most of them leading nowhere, or only back where she had been before.
Women, dressed all in black, and small, ragged boys watched her pass. She tried to ask them the way, but they only shook their heads and stared at her with black, apparently sightless eyes. She began to grow frightened and more and more desperate. And then suddenly there she was in the road that led to the port, although she had no idea of how she had got there.
Looking at her watch, she saw that it was already twenty to twelve. She tried to tel l herself that it no longer mattered to her. Now that she was not going to be married at noon, the hour of twelve no longer held any meaning. She was cross with herself, therefore, for feeling bereft and forlorn by the knowledge. She sniffed hard and pressed on down the street. She would get on the first boat for Naples and that would be that!
The heat pressed down on her, but she refused to go any slower. She was almost sure that the ticket offices would close at twelve, for the long lunch hour that is
The Signora’s eyebrows rose. “Do you want to give him something?” she asked in a deliberately neutral voice.
Ruth felt the burning colour leap to her cheeks. “It’s—it’s customary,” she mumbled.
The Signora came close to grinning. “What a good idea! What did you have in mind ? ”
Ruth cast about in her mind, feeling more and more miserable by the minute. “I don’t know,” she said at last.
“A gold pen?” Lucia suggested. “You must forgive me for asking, but have you much money with you?”
“Enough for that,” Ruth grunted. “Could we go somewhere more central and have a look at some?” The Signora was only too glad to fall in with such a plan. Ruth felt like a traitor. If only the older woman didn’t look quite so much like the cat who had swallowed the canary! If only she could bring herself to dislike her! And if only, oh yes, if only she could bring herself to dislike Mario instead of feeling weak in the stomach every time she thought of him!
“I saw a shop near the harbour,” Ruth made herself say just as if she had only just thought of it.
“That’s where we go!” the Signora agreed eagerly. “Wherever you say!”
She thrust the car through the narrow streets with determination. The pedestrians flattened themselves against the walls as they passed and a stall of melons collapsed under the sheer pressure of people. Some ragged children rushed d own the street, the stolen melons in their hands. The stall-holder ran after them, puffing and fuming in the heat. He shook his fist at Signora Verdecchio and, looking a trifle dismayed, she came to a stop.
“The streets are too narrow—” she began to explain.
“Then drive your car somewhere else!” he advised her, his pudgy flesh trembling with anger.
“I’ll help you pick the melons up,” Ruth offered eagerly in her broken Italian.
A smile spread over his face as he recognised a foreigner. “Then you do accept full liability?” he demanded.
Signora Verdecchio stepped out of the car, a non-stop spurt of Italian issuing from her. Ruth would have loved to have stayed to hear the end of the incident, but she knew that she wouldn’t get a better chance. If she were to escape, this was her opportunity.
She ran as hard as she could and found herself in the Piazza Kalsa, a fine square behind the Porta dei Greca, with its densely populated alleys, full of sailors and fishermen whose wives are famous for their lace-making and embroidery. The Kalsa is the most typically Arab part of the city and there were delightful little courts that Ruth would have loved to explore. As it was, she ran hither and thither, looking for the way to the port, but there seemed to be no end to the narrow alleys, most of them leading nowhere, or only back where she had been before.
Women, dressed all in black, and small, ragged boys watched her pass. She tried to ask them the way, but they only shook their heads and stared at her with black, apparently sightless eyes. She began to grow frightened and more and more desperate. And then suddenly there she was in the road that led to the port, although she had no idea of how she had got there.
Looking at her watch, she saw that it was already twenty to twelve. She tried to tel l herself that it no longer mattered to her. Now that she was not going to be married at noon, the hour of twelve no longer held any meaning. She was cross with herself, therefore, for feeling bereft and forlorn by the knowledge. She sniffed hard and pressed on down the street. She would get on the first boat for Naples and that would be that!
The heat pressed down on her, but she refused to go any slower. She was almost sure that the ticket offices would close at twelve, for the long lunch hour that is
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