The Italian Castle Affair

By Elizabeth Pulford

It has been years since childhood friends, Jean, Coral and Doreen have met. Not since the summer of 1963, that last and fateful night at the Italian castle. Now years later they receive notice that all three of them have inherited the castle and so return to the place where everything changed for them, no longer able to deny the truth of what happened.

It is also a time of the three women facing themselves - of what they were, what they did, and what they’ve become.

The Italian Castle Affair is a sinister and often humorous concoction of secrets, betrayal, revenge and murder.

Originally published in print form as Castello Italiano by Penguin NZ

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Pulford
• Release date: Jan 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466013841

Elizabeth Pulford

Before I became a writer I was a traveller, a typist, a cleaner and an ice-cream girl in a cinema.Now I live in New Zealand in a small southern seaside town with one extra nice husband who is a king of-all-trades.We have two children and two grandchildren.Every morning I go to my little writing room to make up stories. From this room I look out into a small garden, where I can hear the birds squabbling.Writing has long been a passion and sometimes even a curse!I have had over sixty children's books published from the very young to YA with regular publishers. Plus my adult short stories have been lucky enough to win many short story competitions.I love being creative, be it baking bread or chasing after new characters.Photograph by: Liz Cadogan - http://www.facebook.com/LizCadoganphotos

Book preview

Chapter 1

Bracken’s Beach - New Zealand

My goodness! thought Jean, it was going to be weird seeing Doreen and Coral after all this time. Thirty-nine years. And for a second her head swam, washing away all sane thoughts, swamping the shore of her mind like the sea. What was she doing? Really doing?

She shivered, and then pausing she stooped to pick up a nice piece of driftwood. Already in her mind she saw it on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, together with the wild grass. She tucked it into her pocket.

To the west the hills were dark against the raw rim of sky. Last night’s storm had swept out to sea, leaving behind great lumps of seaweed, chunks of wood and a bleak bitterness.

Yet not so in Italy. Where the heat would be stealing between your toes and the sun scorching the dark shadows.

Jean walked with her face turned towards the ocean; the collar of her old blue jacket pulled tight around her cheeks, a knitted hat covering her head.

High above a seagull screeched and swooped. She glanced upwards. Saw its wide wings, felt its freedom, heard its wild cry.

Damn you, Ramon.

Did she really need to go back there? Return to the past?

Yes.

Then she’d better get cracking. With that thought in mind Jean swung round and marched along the damp sand with a determined step towards her cottage.

Let the deed begin, she muttered as she flung open the back door and stalked into the kitchen. She pulled out the piece of bleached wood and placed it on the bench, took off her jacket and hat, dumping them both on the stool beside the bench and then hurried through to her bedroom at the back of the cottage.

The room was small and blue, like the sky on a sunny day, like Italy, with a half curved ceiling and three tiny windows.

Jean picked up the grey, crease resistant trousers and jacket, which had been carefully laid over the chair for the last two days, a pair of knickers and her oldest bra for total comfort, on the advice of a well-travelled friend, and went to shower. She had forty-five minutes before the taxi was due.

Vern arrived five minutes early. When Jean saw the familiar black and red car draw up outside her place she snapped out the extending handle of her brand new navy suitcase then with her face set walked towards the front door.

Morning, said Vern, so you’re off then.

I am, replied Jean, settling herself in the front seat beside him.

Vern started the engine, did a swift U-turn and then headed towards the small airport, ten kilometers out of town. You’re lucky Ron let you out of the classroom for a bit.

Jean grimaced. It wasn’t without a fight. I pleaded mental instability if I didn’t have time off.

He laughed. I can imagine that being the case with someone like Ron. A stickler for rules and paperwork. He slowed the car down at the crossroad.

Italy, eh? Lucky you. You’ll be heading into summer.

Jean nodded. She had this sudden desire to taste olives again. Not in a café here, but in the country where they belonged, swimming about in a salad like beautiful black eyes. Sharp and salty, stinging her tongue.

Holiday! Is it?

Not exactly. More a reunion of sorts.

Felicity House - Vancouver

The phone rang.

Coming, said Doreen her long legs striding across the room. She whipped up the portable phone. Yes. A pause, then, It’s okay. Come on up if you want. No – it’s fine. Another pause. Julio, she said, speaking slowly. You know we’ve talked about this and you’re not a problem. You will never be a problem. Now I’m making coffee and expect you up here in five minutes. She pressed the off button, put the phone on the bench, plugged in the jug and then rinsed two used mugs from the sink.

She should be packing, not having to deal with this.

A few moments later a knock at the door. Come in, she called.

A short, dark stocky youth appeared with a band of pale hair and barbed paraphernalia stuck into his nose and ears.

Here, said Doreen, handing him a steaming black coffee.

He took it.

Tell me what happened.

The youth didn’t speak for a moment, however when he finally opened his mouth he let out a pistol of foul language finishing with, She’s not gonna be treatin me like that. She’s real asking to be done over. He sucked at the coffee.

And what good would that do? said Doreen, guiding him towards the secondhand sofa, which squatted beneath the wide window. We’ve talked about this before. Haven’t we?

Some of the anger drained from his face.

Doreen sighed. Did you tell Ria what we had discussed?

She don’t listen to nobody. Especially not me.

Then I will speak to her again.

A small silence filled the room.

What’s we going to do when you’ve gone?

You know very well. We’ve been over this many times, Julio. If you have a problem you go and talk to Carla.

He made a rude noise with his mouth and glared at the floor. Why’s you going away anyway?

Doreen ignored his question. It’s either Carla or back on the street, she said, leaning over and looking into his face. Which?

Julio pouted and then said, Yeah well, I’s not gonna be bossed about by no girl.

Doreen hid a smile. No. Of course not.

So! You’d better tell her that.

I’ll speak to her before I leave.

And that Ria as well?

Yes. And Ria.

Okay then. He rose to leave. But you gotta know it’s war if I’s catch that Ria anywhere’s near my stuff again. You hear?

Doreen nodded and guided him towards the door. Then taking his mug she gently ushered him out into the hall.

I’ll be back bossing you around before you know it, she said with a quick smile and shut the door. With a loud sigh she went over to the cupboard beside the fridge, took out a half used bottle of wine, poured herself a full glass and then went over to the window.

A light drizzle drifted against the glass.

Hell! It was going to be good to get away from all this for a while.

She raised her glass to the congested trail of traffic in the street below.

Grazie, Ramon.

Then she drank.

Burns Farm - Scotland

Coral folded her new nightdress carefully and placed it into the open suitcase on top of the neat row of sandals and shoes. Next she placed her underwear, several skirts, trousers and lastly her sketchpad, pencils and pastels.

Alaster wandered into the room. He gazed at the packed suitcase with an amused expression and shook his head. I thought you were going for ten days. Not ten years, he teased.

I want to look nice, said Coral.

You always do. He came over to the dresser and wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed the back of her neck.

Mother, called Fiona from downstairs. Have you seen my green top?

How are we going to cope while you’re gone? murmured Alaster.

Coral twisted around in his arms. You’ll be fine. Now, she said, pulling away. I need to finish.

Mum… said their daughter, hurrying upstairs and poking her head around the door. My green top, have you seen it?

It’s in the dryer.

Thank you. She disappeared.

See, said Coral. It’s as easy as that.

Are you sure its just women you’re meeting up with?

Coral laughed softly. They’re my two oldest friends. I’ve told you.

And I can’t come.

No, you can’t.

Her husband made a disgruntled sound and then followed Fiona down the stairs. Wait until it’s my turn, he called back. Then we’ll see how easy you let me go.

She knew she was lucky. Knew that Alaster adored her. She smiled and went over to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. For the next few minutes she sat choosing earrings, bracelets and other adornments for the trip. However, before including the last piece, a necklace, in a soft padded pouch, she held it up against her bare neck, gazed at it in the mirror. The green stones glinted.

Ah, Ramon. Magnificent.

Then folding her hand around it, she placed it carefully with the rest of the jewellry.

Chapter 2

Bloomford Hotel - London

The city was hot. Stifling. A mini heat wave Jean had been told on her arrival at the hotel at the ungodly hour of five-thirty in the morning by the smart young woman in reception.

Jean shifted about on swollen feet. How dare she look so cool and composed. While her own crease-resistant trousers clung to parts, which were both unhygienic and unattractive.

Floor Five. Room Sixty-two, said the receptionist, handing over the key after the formalities had been completed.

Thank you. Jean took the key and made her way to the lifts, pulling her case behind her. Thank goodness for wheels these days. On her way she glanced around the quiet foyer seeking the support of one of the ‘well-appointed porters’, indicated in the hotel’s brochure.

However, there wasn’t a movement as she wound her way between the overlarge green plastic plants. Perhaps the well-appointed porters were all having breakfast or still in bed.

She pressed the lift button and then leaned against the cool wall. She wasn’t used to travelling now and certainly not halfway across the world cooped up in a metal machine with a herd of strangers. It had been a tiring flight. Full of unexpected turbulence with most of them arriving at meal times.

The inside of her head hummed. Or was it some machine in the hotel?

Jean yawned. What was the lift doing? Surely not transporting hoards of tourists to their various rooms. She had arrived on her own. She pinged the button again.

Within a few seconds the lift arrived and five minutes later she was thankfully ensconced in her room, sitting on the edge of the bed, her suitcase safely on the rack.

She pulled off her shoes, swung up her legs and puffy feet and then lay back. Nestled her aching neck into the pillows. She closed her eyes.

Bliss.

Jean tried to sleep. But her mind was still flying, floating high above the world. Everything seemed so unreal, yet by the sound of the never ceasing traffic in the street below she knew she was in London or some other equally large city and not at Bracken’s Beach.

With a loud sigh she rolled over and glanced at the clock’s red digital figures. 6.55.

It was still hours before Coral arrived and Doreen.

She climbed off the bed and went and stood by the window. London. After all these years. Whoever would have thought? Certainly not her and never for the particular reason that had brought her back. Jean shook her head, as if trying to shake away the disbelief. She gazed out over the traffic, the buildings and the dawn sky. It looked as if the day was going to be another hot one. She turned away from the scene.

A shower. That’s what was needed.

She went into the small bathroom. Peeled off her sticky clothes as if they were plasters, left them where they lay on the tiled floor and then stepped under the steaming water.

*

Forty minutes later Jean was dressed and feeling suitably refreshed. Coral was arriving around lunchtime, Doreen early evening. Until then time was her own. Jean knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to get out of this lifeless box of a room and walk down London’s pavements once more, find a café and have breakfast. Sleep could wait! She’d had plenty over the years that would stand her in good stead now.

For goodness’ sake she was in London. Get out woman and enjoy!

So wearing a pair of light blue trousers, a loose flowery shirt, (loose for all the wrong reasons) Jean stepped out of the hotel and onto the pavement. Then in a fit of exuberance she took a deep breath of the morning air. Bracken’s Beach it wasn’t, but oh my she felt like twenty again and having just arrived. Except this time she had a money belt, something which had never been thought of in the sixties. And what a fool thing it was too, strapped around her middle like a harness and goodness knows how she was expected to extract any money from it without severely drawing attention to herself? Perhaps it would have been better if she’d worn it outside her shirt, slung it to one side like a gun holster, ready for any crooks skulking amongst the dark crowds.

Jean chuckled.

Come now, behave thyself, but instead she felt like skipping. Joyful yellow steps all over the pavement. Up and over an imaginary rope.

*

By the time Jean finally found a suitable café she had walked several blocks. Gratefully, she sank down onto one of the white slat chairs after choosing a fresh croissant filled with jam and cream and ordering a large cup of coffee. Her thighs felt damp and soggy, like fingers after squeezing oranges. She was unfit. Walks on the beach had not done her any good at all, as much as she told herself it was rigorous exercise.

She bet Doreen would still be all gristle, and there was no doubt in her mind that Coral would have remained gloriously lithe.

Oh well!

So thinking Jean picked up the croissant, and slowly sunk her teeth into the rich pastry. At least she had one thing she could crow about, something that hadn’t dimmed with the years and that was her eyesight. No need for glasses yet; her eyes were still as sharp as they had ever been.

However, her memory was another matter. And one she didn’t particularly want to think about. Yet how could she forget things so easily? Especially events that had happened only last week?

The small café was busy. Bustling with the smell of roasted coffee, plump, yeasty treats and sizzling bacon. People leaning over reading a paper, engrossed in a paperback, talking, touching each other, laughing, or simply staring out the window at the waking up world.

A wisp of sadness fluttered through Jean. Had living in Bracken’s Beach killed her off? When was the last time she had felt more than half alive? Be truthful?

Not for years.

Yes. And where was it?

Italy.

Her eyes misted.

Flat white, said a voice near her shoulder.

What! Oh. Her thoughts were knocked sideways. She pushed her half eaten croissant to one side to make room for the coffee. Yes. Thank you.

When the slip of the waitress had left Jean lifted the fat green cup, curled her hands around its middle, shut her eyes and sipped. The coffee was strong, the milk hot. Perfect.

Thirty thousand feet up – Easy U Flight

Coral closed her eyes and listened to the drumming sound of the engines. She liked flying. It was exhilarating and so much more convenient than bus or train. It was like floating in water, almost, with her face down, eyes open wide staring into the clear water. The sounds muted, cut off from the rest of the world.

Coffee or tea? said the hostess, smiling down at Coral.

Tea, thank you, said Coral. After it had been poured, she reached out and took the small white cup from the plastic tray. The hostess then proceeded to ask the others in her row. Pressing herself back against the seat Coral hoped the plane wouldn’t suddenly hit a bumpy air pocket, there had already been several on this trip, not that they normally bothered her. However, for the grand meeting with Jean and Doreen she had gone to great pains to choose her outfit carefully and didn’t want it to be splashed with liquid. A good impression was important after all these years and so she had gone to the trouble and expense of buying a designer jacket, a smart pair of black trousers, new shoes and a hand painted silk scarf. She hadn’t been sure about the scarf but in the end decided why not. She didn’t want either Jean or Doreen, especially Doreen, to think she was anything like the person she had been before.

Are you travelling for business or pleasure? asked the man, sitting next to her, who had been hidden behind the newspaper since they’d taken off. He sipped a coffee.

A bit of both, said Coral, turning and smiling. London and then Italy. He looked to be in his late thirties and reminded her a little of Alaster at the time of their marriage.

Sounds like pleasure to me, he said with a smile.

And you?

My father’s had a heart attack.

I’m sorry. She wanted to reach out and take his hand and comfort him. But also tell him the truth that life had a way of taking away the ones you loved. Took them without a word of explanation, as if it was a universal right and there was nothing you could do about it.

My mother is beside herself with worry. I’m going down for moral support.

Yes.

Coral cradled her hands around the empty plastic cup. The hurt was still with her after all these years. She knew that. It was as if it had grown a skin around her heart and couldn’t let it go.

I hope your father is all right.

It would help if he stopped smoking.

Coral nodded and glanced out of the window.

A comfortable silence fell between them.

They were flying into a pillow of cloud.

We went to Italy once, said the man, to Venice. My parents took me. I was about eight and for years I’ve wanted to return. But time seems to have a habit of slipping between the years.

Coral turned. Yes, she said. It does, doesn’t it?

Are you going to a special place in Italy?

Yes. You could say that. It’s in the Puglia region. On the coast.

The man gave her a puzzled look.

In the heel area of Italy.

Not Tuscany then?

No…Tuscany hadn’t been discovered, so to speak, when we were there.

He waited for further explanation.

I was twenty. I went with two girl friends. We were part of a diving expedition.

Now that sounds interesting.

Coral smiled. "It was in 1963. You know when it was the rage to make love, him lying hot between her naked thighs, and not war. The flower power era."

He laughed. You don’t look old enough.

You say the right things, she said, feeling pleased. Feeling the money she had spent on herself now justified. She smiled at him. Life is full of little treasures. And sometimes they come without any digging.

In what way?

Well, she breathed, leaning close, but not too close, the main reason for returning to Italy is that I’ve inherited a castle.

The young man’s eyes opened wide and he whistled softly. A castle. Really?

Yes, said Coral. Isn’t it astounding. She settled back into her seat. It wasn’t exactly a lie, she told herself. Why complicate things for this stranger by including Jean and Doreen. A third of a castle didn’t have the same ring to it as a whole castle.

The co-pilot’s voice came over the intercom advising them to fasten their seat belts.

The man folded up his paper.

It some ways, said Coral, now that I’m returning it feels as if I was there only yesterday. Then she shut her eyes and prepared to land. As they flew into Heathrow the song Moon River sang in her head.

Vancouver International Airport

Doreen dumped the ragged bunch of stolen flowers in the bin. It had been nice of the kids, but what good were they if she was on the move for the next couple of weeks. She knew Marco had pinched them from the Sunnyoaks graveyard.

The Vancouver airport was humming with life. People milling around, munching fatty burgers, chicken and chips, sipping water, slouching, sitting, strolling, reading books, newspapers, anything to make the time pass.

Doreen shuffled from one foot to the other in the check-in queue. It seemed as if she had arrived at the same time as everyone else who was flying to London. She sighed. She should have known to arrive earlier. And she would have if there hadn’t been that incident with Reece and the dog, and the police. Doreen grimaced and shuffled a few steps forward. It seemed a lot of her life had been bound up with the law.

Finally Doreen was free of the check-in queue. She walked up the stairs to the first landing and into the smart airport bar. She knew she didn’t look exactly like a well-heeled businessperson, but at least her jeans had been pressed. Whereas her shirt hadn’t. Still it was partially covered by a green sleeveless jacket.

Gin, neat. Thanks.

When she had been served she carried her drink over to a corner table, dumped her backpack on the floor and sat down. She lifted her glass said a silent ‘Cheers’ and swallowed a mouthful.

Excuse me, is this seat taken?

Doreen shook her head.

Thank you. The elderly woman put her glass of white wine on the table and then settled herself down.

God! thought Doreen. She could be Mother. With her hair in that soft roll fastened behind her head, those grey eyes and with that air of old-fashioned gentility. And for a moment her throat clammed up as she saw her mother’s beautiful fingers again, long and slender playing the piano; heard the lyrics gliding up the curved staircase in the gracious old house, late into the night as she lay in bed. She wondered if her mother ever knew the truth about her father.

Doreen shifted about in the chair. It was strange the way a memory surfaced, as if it had been hiding beneath a thin fiber of flesh waiting for a chance to escape and prick at the heart.

It’s calm outside, said the woman in way of conversation.

Yes, breathed Doreen, letting her mother go, folding her back into the past. She picked up her drink and took a sip. It’s a good day for flying.

The woman smiled. What I do for my grandchildren, she said with a sigh. I wouldn’t set one foot in the air if it weren’t for them. But what can you do? You either have to…

Doreen nodded and stifled a yawn.

Sorry, said the woman. I do have a habit of going on.

No, it’s me. Too little sleep.

And where are you headed? If that’s not a rude question.

London and then Italy, said Doreen with a smile. I’m meeting up with my two oldest friends.

A yearly reunion, is it?

Doreen laughed. We haven’t seen each other for thirty-nine years. Let’s hope we recognize each other.

What a wonderful occasion.

We’ll see. Doreen picked up her glass and swallowed the remainder of her gin. She pushed back her chair and stood up.

Can I get you another wine? she asked.

Oh no, thank you. One is more than enough.

Can you keep an eye on it? asked Doreen, pointing to her backpack, lying under the table.

Certainly.

Doreen had considered taking her pack with her to the bar, but then thought, no. What did it matter? There wasn’t anything in it worth stealing. Except perhaps the paperback she was halfway through.

Bloomford Hotel - London

The secluded guests’ garden at the rear of the hotel was nice, decided Jean.

Tucked between two wooden fences, one dripping with a white rambling rose, the other with wisteria, both drenching the garden with their potent perfume. At the far end of the area grew a smart green prickly hedge, manicured to perfection. In front of the hedge stood a small sundial. Narrow gardens wound like ribbons at the foot of the fences, giving movement, and were overflowing with a blaze of blues and reds. A hose discreetly watered a clump of delphiniums in the far right-hand corner.

She could have stepped onto the set of a film. A pretty romance. As what, pray? Hardly the young and beautiful heroine. No –more likely the more interesting stepsister or mother. Even years ago her acting career had been a myth. Well, she thought crossly, whose fault had that been? Not hers. She had auditioned enough times. They simply hadn’t recognized her talent.

She sipped her lemonade.

Never mind. That was years ago. This was now. She shifted about on the narrow bottomed chair. Why were all modern chairs so uncomfortable and so thin, she wondered. What had happened to the chairs that had gracious seats?

The three other tables were empty. Jean was glad. It was ridiculous but she felt oddly nervous of the approaching reunion with Coral. After all it had been a long time.

Lifting her drink she sipped at the cool lemonade. Chunks of ice clinked against the glass. She caught one in between her teeth and then sucked it into her mouth, crunching it until the cold slivers slipped down her throat. She had considered having a wine, but no grazie – she decided there would be plenty of time for that later. She wanted to be alert when Coral walked through the French doors.

She leaned forward and using her fingers this time, Jean picked out the largest lump of ice she could find and popped it into her mouth.

Jean?

Startled, Jean sucked, sending the chunk of ice skidding to the back of her throat, where it immediately blocked her windpipe. Now, instead of flowing gracefully towards Coral, as she had imagined in her head, she was hunched over making frightening gargling sounds, her eyes popping behind her sunglasses.

Wham! A thud hit her on the back. And another. The second one dislodged the ice and sent it shooting out onto the table where it spun around in a crazy circle like a dying fly.

With tears in her eyes and a vampire throat, Jean turned and whispered, Zanks.

Zink nuzzing of it, replied Coral with a sweet gurgle.

By now Jean had almost recovered, with air again flowing freely to important parts of her anatomy and brain. She looked up at Coral and seeing her for the first time, nearly choked again. This creature standing before her certainly wasn’t the Coral she had known years ago. What had happened to the painfully shy person who had been afraid of the world? This woman was an alien.

Cameras. Get ready to roll.

Oh my, exclaimed Jean.

Okay. Action.

Suck in stomach. Hold it.