Read Online Evening Class by Maeve Binchy, Kate Binchy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maeve Binchy, Kate Binchy
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foreign woman, the strange foreign woman with the big wild eyes and long red hair. Occasionally Signora asked herself was there any possibility that she could be mad, which was what her family at home thought and was almost certainly the view of the citizens of Annunziata.
Other women would surely have let him go, cried over the loss of his love and got on with their lives. She had only been twenty-four back in 1969, and she lived through her thirties, sewing and smiling and speaking Italian, but never in public to the man she loved. All that time in London when he had begged her to learn his language, telling her how beautiful it was, she had learned hardly a word, telling him that he was the one who must learn English so that they could open a twelve-bedroom hotel in Ireland and make their fortune. And all the time Mario had laughed and told her that she was his redheaded principessa , the loveliest girl in the world.
Signora had some memories that she did not run past herself in the little picture-show of memories which she played in her mind.
She didn’t think of the white-hot anger of Mario when she followed him to Annunziata and got off the bus that day, recognising his father’s little hotel immediately from the description. His face had hardened in a way that frightened her to think about. He had pointed to a van that was parked outside and motioned her to get in. He had driven very fast, taking corners at a terrible speed, and then turned suddenly off that road into a secluded olive grove where no one could see them. She reached for him, yearning as she had been yearning since she had set out on her journey.
But he pushed her away from him and pointed to the valley down below.
‘See those vines, those belong to Gabriella’s father, see the ones there, they belong to my father. It has always been known that we will marry. You have no right to come here like this and make things bad for me.’
‘I have every right. I love you, you love me.’ It had been so simple.
His face was working with the emotion of bewilderment. ‘You cannot say that I have not been honest, I told you this, I told your parents. I never pretended that I was not involved with and promised to Gabriella.’
‘Not in bed you didn’t, you spoke of no Gabriella then,’ she had pleaded.
‘Nobody speaks of another woman in bed, Nora. Be reasonable, go away, go home, go back to Ireland.’
‘I can’t go home,’ Nora had said simply. ‘I have to be where you are. It’s just the way things are. I will stay here forever.’
And that was the way it was.
The years passed and by sheer grit Signora became a part of the life of Annunziata. Not really accepted, because nobody knew exactly why she was there and her explanation that she loved Italy was not considered enough. She lived in two rooms in a house on the square. Her rent was low because she kept an eye on the elderly couple who owned the house, brought them steaming cups of caffe latte in the morning and she did their shopping for them.
But she was no trouble. She didn’t sleep with the menfolk or drink in the bars. She taught English in the little school every Friday morning. She sewed little fancies and took them every few months to a big town to sell them.
She learned Italian from a little book and it became tattered as she went over and over the phrases, asking herself questions and answering them, her soft Irish voice eventually mastering the Italian sounds.
She sat in her room and watched the wedding of Mario and Gabriella, sewing all the time and letting no tear fall on the linen that she was embroidering. The fact that he looked up at her as the bells rang from the little campanile of the church in the square was enough. He was walking with his brothers and Gabriella’s brothers to be married because it was their way. A tradition that involved families marrying each other to keep the land. It had nothing to do with his love for her or hers for him. That couldn’t
Other women would surely have let him go, cried over the loss of his love and got on with their lives. She had only been twenty-four back in 1969, and she lived through her thirties, sewing and smiling and speaking Italian, but never in public to the man she loved. All that time in London when he had begged her to learn his language, telling her how beautiful it was, she had learned hardly a word, telling him that he was the one who must learn English so that they could open a twelve-bedroom hotel in Ireland and make their fortune. And all the time Mario had laughed and told her that she was his redheaded principessa , the loveliest girl in the world.
Signora had some memories that she did not run past herself in the little picture-show of memories which she played in her mind.
She didn’t think of the white-hot anger of Mario when she followed him to Annunziata and got off the bus that day, recognising his father’s little hotel immediately from the description. His face had hardened in a way that frightened her to think about. He had pointed to a van that was parked outside and motioned her to get in. He had driven very fast, taking corners at a terrible speed, and then turned suddenly off that road into a secluded olive grove where no one could see them. She reached for him, yearning as she had been yearning since she had set out on her journey.
But he pushed her away from him and pointed to the valley down below.
‘See those vines, those belong to Gabriella’s father, see the ones there, they belong to my father. It has always been known that we will marry. You have no right to come here like this and make things bad for me.’
‘I have every right. I love you, you love me.’ It had been so simple.
His face was working with the emotion of bewilderment. ‘You cannot say that I have not been honest, I told you this, I told your parents. I never pretended that I was not involved with and promised to Gabriella.’
‘Not in bed you didn’t, you spoke of no Gabriella then,’ she had pleaded.
‘Nobody speaks of another woman in bed, Nora. Be reasonable, go away, go home, go back to Ireland.’
‘I can’t go home,’ Nora had said simply. ‘I have to be where you are. It’s just the way things are. I will stay here forever.’
And that was the way it was.
The years passed and by sheer grit Signora became a part of the life of Annunziata. Not really accepted, because nobody knew exactly why she was there and her explanation that she loved Italy was not considered enough. She lived in two rooms in a house on the square. Her rent was low because she kept an eye on the elderly couple who owned the house, brought them steaming cups of caffe latte in the morning and she did their shopping for them.
But she was no trouble. She didn’t sleep with the menfolk or drink in the bars. She taught English in the little school every Friday morning. She sewed little fancies and took them every few months to a big town to sell them.
She learned Italian from a little book and it became tattered as she went over and over the phrases, asking herself questions and answering them, her soft Irish voice eventually mastering the Italian sounds.
She sat in her room and watched the wedding of Mario and Gabriella, sewing all the time and letting no tear fall on the linen that she was embroidering. The fact that he looked up at her as the bells rang from the little campanile of the church in the square was enough. He was walking with his brothers and Gabriella’s brothers to be married because it was their way. A tradition that involved families marrying each other to keep the land. It had nothing to do with his love for her or hers for him. That couldn’t
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