Lucy looked down at the sea bass, reminded of the recent end-of-term, classroom screening of the Disney movie,Finding Nemo, which had left some of her pupils in tears, refusing to ever eat fish fingers again, ‘…’cos fish have feelings too, Miss.’
The whiff of fish this early in the morning was starting to make her stomach heave. Time for coffee.
With the Moka pot gurgling away on the stove, Lucy had just enough time for a quick shower.
She was grateful for the respite the flow of cool water gave her body from the clammy heat. The lemon-scented soap refreshed and restored her tired skin and injected her with a shot of zing for the coming day.
The open window looked directly onto the sea, twinkling like millions of crystals on a navy carpet. She felt like she was starring in some classic Italian movie, and could almost hear the strains of an Ennio Morricone soundtrack floating through the window.
The air was bright and laced with the smells and sounds of the sea. She was tempted to clamber down the rocks and stroll along the shore, to the row of brightly coloured beach huts, to allow the rosy sunlight to warm her pale skin, but reminded herself that this was not a holiday. She was here to work.
Lucy towel-dried her hair and quickly unpacked her crumpled white linen trousers. Unlatching the wardrobe door, she reached inside for a hanger. Her arm brushed against a man’s shirt swinging on the rail. Squashed in the corner were several more shirts, a pair of men’s trousers and a waistcoat.
She wondered why they were there. Maybe Dario stayed over occasionally. Break-ups were complicated enough without there being children involved, she pondered.
She hung up her creased trousers and shut the door, ticking herself off for allowing her curiosity to get the better of her again. She was beginning to turn into her busybody of a mother.
Lucy chose one of her flowery, honeymoon dresses and a cream cotton jacket to wear instead, and some of her bridal lingerie.
She’d thrown out all her tatty underwear in the run-up to the wedding. So what if there was no man in her life now to appreciate her sexy push-up bra and matching lace nothings?
After checking herself in the full-length mirror, she picked up the small Hogwarts notebook she’d forgotten to give Stefano thenight before. She went to his room and picking her way over bits of Lego and a plastic dinosaur, Lucy laid the notebook on his unmade bed. As she turned to go, her gaze was drawn to the framed photograph on his desk, illuminated by the beam of sunlight streaming through the open window. Such a happy family picture – but in the bright light of day she could now see the man in the photograph was not Dario. He had the same dark good looks: chiselled features, ebony-black hair and brown eyes deep enough to swim in. An uncle perhaps?
Her musings were interrupted by the intense, nutty aroma of coffee wafting down the hallway. The coffee!
‘Buongiorno!’ resonated Elena’s voice, just as Lucy was rescuing the steaming Moka pot from the stove.
‘Buongiorno.’Lucy winced slightly as she placed the scorching pot on the table.
Elena handed Lucy a warm, brown paper bag. ‘Perfect timing.’
Lucy peeped inside, the sweet smell of freshly baked puff pastry, vanilla and icing sugar melting her taste buds.
‘Sfogliatella,’ said Elena.‘This means small, thin leaf. They are a speciality in Naples since the seventeenth century.’
Twosfogliatelleand numerous espressos later, they set off in Elena’s red Fiat Cinquecento to the school.
Lucy’s hand fluttered in the breeze as they sped through the labyrinth of noisy, narrow streets festooned with window boxes and washing lines, ablaze with colour.
Her other hand clutched the folder containing the lesson plans she had been so carefully preparing since the job offer.
All at once her stomach lurched. She wished she hadn’t eaten bothsfogliatelleor drunk so much explosively strong coffee. Despite Elena’s reassurances that she was the right person for the job, teaching adults was a different ball game entirely. They had lifeexperience, strong opinions and would be driven out of choice, not forced by their parents.I SpyorWacky Word Searchwouldn’t wash with a class of sophisticated high-flyers.
Lucy had revised her future conditionals and past participles, but how do you explain pronunciation and spelling inconsistencies such as ‘rough’ and ‘through’? And if that wasn’t complicatedenough, how about, ‘The door was too close to the table to close.’?
She had realised over the last few weeks just how difficult English must be to learn and how much native speakers take for granted. Did she know her mother tongue well enough to teach it to adults? Would they understand her Scottish accent? With all eyes focused on her, would she freeze?
‘We are here.’ Elena pulled on the handbrake, then reached over to the back seat for her briefcase. ‘We have one hour before our first class.’
Lucy hastily unfastened her seat belt and got out of the car. She gasped. Standing before her, frozen in time, gleaming in the Mediterranean sunshine, was an olive green, vintage railway carriage, with an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Naples beyond a glass wall.
Transfixed, she ran her hand lightly along its length, her fingers tracing the gold lettering that spelledRepubblica Italiana. What stories lay behind these carriage doors, she wondered? How many sad farewells and joyful reunions had they been witness to? Who had been travelling? Where were they going and why? And how had the carriage ended up here, separated from the rest of the train?
‘Benvenuta! Welcome!’ said Elena, opening the door wide and beckoning Lucy inside.
She hurried up the steps and was immediately transported to another time; the smell of the highly polished, cherry wood, thefeel of the dark blue velvet seat covers, the sun’s rays casting a kaleidoscope of colour through the Tiffany lamps to spill, like jewels, onto the creaky floor.
Lucy half expected a twirly moustachioed Poirot to shuffle onto the scene proclaiming, ‘Mesdames et messieurs,zare ’as been a murder!’
