A Funeral in Fiesole Read Free

would be hardest for Nigel. No. No – it would be most difficult for Brod.
    ‘And no Palestrina.’
    ‘Paola …!’
    ‘Okay. Okay. The twins and I will read at the service, I suppose?’
    My little brother, my baby brother, now fifty-three, blinked. ‘You’re the oldest, Paola. Of course you’ll read. We’ll all read. Have you prepared anything? Suzanna and Brod don’t have real choices.’
    ‘Don’t forget we have written directions.’ Harriet came around the big table, pulled out a chair and sat lightly, gracefully, crossing long legs. ‘The sauce, Nige.’
    Her husband swivelled quickly and twisted a knob, which made the simmer subside. ‘Have you noticed how hot tomato can get?’
    ‘Suzanna and Brod can read … the bit out of St Paul Mama liked, and the letter Papa …’
    ‘No! No letters. Too private. Not out of the dim distant past. Besides, we have her suggestions to choose from. She left a list.’
    Harriet drummed perfect fingers on the scratched red tabletop. ‘All right, Nige. Your father died when you were little children. He was out of …’
    ‘He was never out of the picture .’ I was not about to let her tell me about my own father. ‘I was fourteen, Harriet. Nigel was nine. The twins were eleven – eleven? – something of the sort. We all have good, live, vivid memories of … of Papa.’
    Nigel filled an enormous pot with water at a tap with a goose neck.
    I changed the subject. ‘When was that installed?’
    Harriet tilted her head to see what it was I had noticed. ‘Oh, the new taps. We had to have them put in when we lived here … you know, all the plumbing essentially needs a good check. Taps were like, urgent .’
    ‘Essentially?’
    ‘Paola, please. Um … no reading from a letter from Papa, then.’ Nigel placed the pot on the stove and lit a flame. ‘I feel I’m cooking for the entire population of Fiesole. How many will we be?’ He started to count on his fingers. ‘You and I. Paola. Suzanna and Lewis. Brod.  Lori and … Tad, perhaps.’
    ‘Perhaps?’
    Nigel lifted an eyebrow so pointed, and Harriet produced a sigh so loud, so protracted and dramatic, it was plain they were having issues with their son. I walked over to the fridge and pulled its old handle.
    Inside, neatly arranged in categories, were obvious recent purchases intended to cater for a large crowd over a number of days. ‘Is Brod bringing anyone?’
    ‘It’s not a party, Paola.’
    I turned to my brother’s wife. ‘I know. It’s a funeral. Is Brod seeing someone right now, I mean.’
    ‘Grant. His name’s Grant and he’s an artist or something.’ She seemed pleased there was something I didn’t know. Filling me in was a pleasure. I could see it in her eyes. She continued with a bit less dryness in her tone.  ‘We’ve never met him, but they’ve … it’s been a year or more, on and off.’
    ‘Goodness – a year?’
    ‘He said he and Grant would stay down at the Ponte Guisto , even though I said they’d be welcome to his old room.’ Harriet’s sharp statement was more potent than the aroma from Nigel’s sauce pot.
    It was evidently because she put it like she did that Brod refused her vicarious hospitality. Her proprietary way. Her ownership of all that was ours. She stood and shook out a brightly coloured checked tablecloth over the round table.
    ‘We’re not eating in here?’
    ‘Why not, Paola?’ Her black hair curtained one side of her face when she raised her eyes. ‘It’s only family.’ She straightened her back. And her mouth. ‘I said only a minute ago it’s not a party.’
     
     

 
Nigel
     
     
    Noise and disruption
     
     
    We ended up eating in the big dining room, of course. The fact Paola thought it was silly to eat in the kitchen got on my nerves, but I think I managed to hide it. Harriet, patient and calm, unfolded another tablecloth, a rectangle of threadbare white damask, which had not been used in years, and draped it over a third of the long