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Authors: Reggie Oliver
Tags: Horror
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seemed about to say something when her husband restrained her by tightly grasping one of her stick-like arms.
‘No,’ said de Walter in a lower, firmer voice than we had hitherto heard, ‘we have not been blessed with that inestimable privilege.’ There was another pause before he added: ‘We couldn’t, you see. War wound.’
With old world courtesy, he cut off my mother’s abject apologies for raising the issue. ‘Please, dear lady,’ he said. ‘Let us say no more on the subject.’ Soon we were discussing the present state of English cricket in which de Walter took a passionate interest, even if he could not quite grasp that Denis Compton was no longer saving England from the defeat at the hands of the Australians, or some people whom he called ‘the fuzzy-wuzzies.’ My father, an enthusiast whose information was rather more up-to-date, was able to correct some of de Walter’s misapprehensions, while Mrs de Walter told my mother how she had all her clothes made up and sent over to Portugal by her dressmaker in England. Everything passed off so amicably that we found ourselves being asked to take lunch with the de Walters the following day at the Villa Monte Rosa.
The next day a taxi delivered us to a pair of rusty wrought iron gates in the pleasantly unspoilt hill village of Monte Rosa. The gates were situated in a high stone wall which surrounded what looked like extensive grounds; a drive from the gates curved into the leafy obscurity of palm and pine trees, and other overgrown vegetation. We were about to push open the gate when down the drive came a wiry middle-aged woman in overalls. Her head was tied up in a bandana and she had a narrow, deeply lined face, the colour and consistency of an old pigskin wallet. Silently, with an attempt at a smile on her face, she shook our hands, then gestured us to follow her up the drive.
The grounds were not well kept, if they were kept at all, but we saw enough of them to guess that they had once been laid out and planted on a lavish scale. Once or twice through some dense and abandoned screen of leaf I caught a glimpse of a lichened piece of classical statuary on a plinth. Then we turned a corner and had our first sight of the Villa Monte Rosa.
It looked to me like a miniature palace made out of pink sugar. Both my parents were entranced by it, but, as they told me later, in slightly different ways. To my father the ornate neo-baroque design evoked a vanished world of elegant Edwardian hedonism. Had it been only a little more extensive, it could have passed for a small casino. To my mother this rose-coloured folly, encroached on all sides by deep, undisciplined vegetation, was a fairy-tale abode of the Sleeping Beauty. It reminded her of illustrations by Edmond Dulac and Arthur Rackham in the books of her childhood.
The de Walters were there to greet us on the steps that led up to the entrance portico. Lunch, simple and elegant, was served to us on the terrace by the woman who had escorted us up the drive. She was their housekeeper and her name was Maria. The terrace was situated at the back of the villa and looked down a gentle incline towards the sea in the distance. What must once have been a magnificent view was now all but obscured by the pine trees through which flashes of azure tantalised the spectator. Mrs de Walter informed us proudly that the Villa Monte Rosa had been built in the 1890s by a Russian Prince for his ballerina mistress. It might not have been true, but it was plausible.
The conversation did not greatly interest me. It consisted largely of a monologue on wine from de Walter, who obviously considered himself an aficionado. Though my father knew more than enough to keep up with him, he had the journalist’s knack of displaying a little judicious ignorance. My mother and Mrs de Walter, who appeared to have less in common, sporadically discussed the weather and the flowers in the garden of the Villa Monte Rosa. After lunch Maria wheeled out
‘No,’ said de Walter in a lower, firmer voice than we had hitherto heard, ‘we have not been blessed with that inestimable privilege.’ There was another pause before he added: ‘We couldn’t, you see. War wound.’
With old world courtesy, he cut off my mother’s abject apologies for raising the issue. ‘Please, dear lady,’ he said. ‘Let us say no more on the subject.’ Soon we were discussing the present state of English cricket in which de Walter took a passionate interest, even if he could not quite grasp that Denis Compton was no longer saving England from the defeat at the hands of the Australians, or some people whom he called ‘the fuzzy-wuzzies.’ My father, an enthusiast whose information was rather more up-to-date, was able to correct some of de Walter’s misapprehensions, while Mrs de Walter told my mother how she had all her clothes made up and sent over to Portugal by her dressmaker in England. Everything passed off so amicably that we found ourselves being asked to take lunch with the de Walters the following day at the Villa Monte Rosa.
The next day a taxi delivered us to a pair of rusty wrought iron gates in the pleasantly unspoilt hill village of Monte Rosa. The gates were situated in a high stone wall which surrounded what looked like extensive grounds; a drive from the gates curved into the leafy obscurity of palm and pine trees, and other overgrown vegetation. We were about to push open the gate when down the drive came a wiry middle-aged woman in overalls. Her head was tied up in a bandana and she had a narrow, deeply lined face, the colour and consistency of an old pigskin wallet. Silently, with an attempt at a smile on her face, she shook our hands, then gestured us to follow her up the drive.
The grounds were not well kept, if they were kept at all, but we saw enough of them to guess that they had once been laid out and planted on a lavish scale. Once or twice through some dense and abandoned screen of leaf I caught a glimpse of a lichened piece of classical statuary on a plinth. Then we turned a corner and had our first sight of the Villa Monte Rosa.
It looked to me like a miniature palace made out of pink sugar. Both my parents were entranced by it, but, as they told me later, in slightly different ways. To my father the ornate neo-baroque design evoked a vanished world of elegant Edwardian hedonism. Had it been only a little more extensive, it could have passed for a small casino. To my mother this rose-coloured folly, encroached on all sides by deep, undisciplined vegetation, was a fairy-tale abode of the Sleeping Beauty. It reminded her of illustrations by Edmond Dulac and Arthur Rackham in the books of her childhood.
The de Walters were there to greet us on the steps that led up to the entrance portico. Lunch, simple and elegant, was served to us on the terrace by the woman who had escorted us up the drive. She was their housekeeper and her name was Maria. The terrace was situated at the back of the villa and looked down a gentle incline towards the sea in the distance. What must once have been a magnificent view was now all but obscured by the pine trees through which flashes of azure tantalised the spectator. Mrs de Walter informed us proudly that the Villa Monte Rosa had been built in the 1890s by a Russian Prince for his ballerina mistress. It might not have been true, but it was plausible.
The conversation did not greatly interest me. It consisted largely of a monologue on wine from de Walter, who obviously considered himself an aficionado. Though my father knew more than enough to keep up with him, he had the journalist’s knack of displaying a little judicious ignorance. My mother and Mrs de Walter, who appeared to have less in common, sporadically discussed the weather and the flowers in the garden of the Villa Monte Rosa. After lunch Maria wheeled out
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