Free Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston Page A

These were circles of green repellent material – attached to metal bases – holders, ready to be lit with a match and to smoulder for hour after hour – keeping mosquitoes at a distance. He was pleased to have thought of that, not wishing to itch or to swell on any part of his body. Nor did he wish itching or swelling on any part of Patricia’s body.
    He had brought, too, plastic mugs, plates, containers and an oil lamp, cushions – even a bread knife. He did not peg the tent for he planned to sleep in his hammock and, also, felt that the erecting of a tent might give his stay the impression of semi-permanence. Tact was required. And skill.
    The venue for the ‘sup’ was ready and pretty well perfect by the time Patricia and Antonio walked down the path to join him.
    â€˜Hi.’ His voice abnormally loud again.
    â€˜I should not really say welcome when this is your home.’
    â€˜Maybe not.’ Patricia answered in a near-to-formal manner but Antonio spoke, in a rush and in Italian to his mother. He extolled the wonders of the ‘Capitano’ – his car, his head-standing exploits, the many marvels of the man until the boy’s mother relaxed and appeared to be at ease. They settled and ate and talked until it darkened and fire flies flicked about. Mosquitos were deterred by the smouldering spirales. Malise served contentedly and with, once again, a great many flourishes. Patricia gave the impression of easing, letting go, enjoying herself. It was good to hear her beauty spot extolled and marvelled at. She began to respond to his queries and described her moment of coming upon the place four years earlier.
    They had explored (Andrea, herself and Antonio – then three years old) the area one autumn day. They had looked for blackberries and enjoyed a day away from the city. A sly local fellow had joined them on the hillside, pointed to the collapsing house and offered it for sale. That and a good number of surrounding hectares at a very low price.
    Her voice.
    Antonio amused himself fiddling with candles and spirales. Patricia lay back on a cushion and said ‘Oh god! That guitarist again.’ Music, from a distance and badly played, followed their ears. Patricia went on ‘Poor Andrea. He can’t bear that noise; goes half mad when it starts up – but – well. I rather like it. Company perhaps.’
    Malise was on the alert. ‘Company? Was she lonely?
    When and how was he to suggest that he stayed longer on her land?
    Antonio was drowsy and Patricia said that they must be off.
    Tomorrow? Was he going on to Volterra in the morning she asked. If so she thanked him for an excellent ‘sup’ and for having been so very good to Antonio and his friend. ‘Perhaps, on your way back, you might like to call by. Andrea, if he is with us, would be pleased to see you again. Headway? He gave no firm answer but, when they had gone, cleared up, snuffed candles, packed food in plastic bags and lodged them under stones beside the stream. Waste not want not, as he had been taught at the farm in Hertfordshire.
    Patricia was only a few hundred yards from where he hooked his hammock. She was there in her unlit house. He crept near to it and watched the beam of a torch through an upper window as she shone herself to bed.
    â€˜To bed. To bed. To bed’ he sang as he rocked, uncontrollably, in his hammock.

 
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    He was bitten by mosquitoes and prevented from sleeping by the amateur guitarist – as well as by his own inner torments.
    After dropping off for an hour or two he was woken by the call of a late summer cuckoo and a throng of black-caps that flurried in a cluster of tall trees near to sturdy ones onto which he’d hooked his hammock.
    Gypsies slunk by carrying bundles of, presumably, Patricia’s logs. He was tempted to confront them. Take up cudgels on her behalf. Knight in armour.
    It was five thirty in