Excerpt from

Castello Italiano

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 wooden 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.’

Reproduced with permission from Penguin.