Free Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston Page B

the morning. Malise had no idea what to do next but the conquest of Patricia was the thing that must be achieved. Strategy was required. It was all very well to be male companion and mentor to Antonio in the absence of the boy’s father – but what when Andrea returned?
    It was not an easy job to extricate himself from the hammock and his skin was lined with the pattern of rope. He washed in the stream and felt that his feet were a long way from his head and that his mouth had gone very dry. All a result of vacillating moments.
    Later, and after a long walk of exploration through bracken, brambles, ferns, trees and streams, he sat on the tarpaulin to eat fruit and a stale roll.
    Patricia visited him alone. She wore a different dress and a blue bow, rather than the pink one of the day before, held back her shimmering, dark hair.
    â€˜Thank you for our delicious supper.’
    â€˜Pleasure Ma’am.’ He sprang up.
    â€˜How was your night in the hammock?’
    â€˜Excellent. Never slept better.’
    â€˜Are you off to Volterra?’
    â€˜I thought. Yes. I’ll push off there sometime today.’
    He never knew what took place as those short sentences had been exchanged but, at some point, he realised that Patricia asked him to stay put for a while.
    For further days.
    â€˜Antonio has begged me to persuade you to stay in your camp for more of his holidays.’
    â€˜Did you need to be begged?’
    He feared that he had overstepped the mark. If he overstepped, Patricia side-stepped and gave him her hand.
    A whisper of delight passed between them; the message of a magic touch. A flutter, a flush, a fuzziness. Whatever it wasn’t – it was an immodest thing.
    Patricia, she told him within seconds, had been holding back – had sheltered behind her son and her marriage. She told him that she would return to her house, tell Antonio to help Malise pitch his tent before, in peculiar mood, tripping down to the
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to hear news of and to send news to her husband, Andrea. The world, for her, moved oddly as though she were being led by an ominous fatality.

 
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    He was glad that he had cleaned his teeth after eating the stale roll and before kissing Patricia’s lips. Fortunate.
    Very soon, Antonio was there, helping to erect the tent and rejoicing that the Capitano planned to stay on.
    Patricia returned, on light feet, from the village where she had exchanged handwritten (by Rosina, the postmistress) messages with Andrea who was not able to join them for several more days. He was sad not to be as flexible as he often was during school holidays but workload in Pisa, where he stayed at the university, was unusually heavy. He missed them both and had much hoped to surprise them,
    Malise asked Antonio ‘Your friend. The one who was here yesterday. Do you sometimes go and play with him at his house?’
    â€˜Not often. It’s more fun exploring here. Especially now you have the camp and Ruggles.’
    That was bad news.
    â€˜It might be nice for them to feel that they can return your hospitality.’
    Antonio was puzzled and did not answer. Patricia, flummoxed, did duty by her son.
    â€˜Oh. That’s OK. He’s an only child and his mother works. Not easy for them.’
    Malise was downcast but knew that his only hope was to pretend to make the best of things. He was, otherwise, wholly elated and knew that, before long, he was certain to get Patricia to himself. That one kiss told him that she responded energetically to his passion.
    He had no way of seeing his reflection. No portable looking glass. If only he could confirm that he was likely, still, to be taken for an effigy; a god of masculine beauty. It was necessary to rely on faith and confidence.
    They were not to be alone together until after it was dark. The three of them ‘supped’ at the stone table outside Patricia’s rickety kitchen. Candles,