Free The Takeover by Muriel Spark Page B

look of curiosity which comes over the faces of people to whom nothing much happens, and which, to people of more elaborate lives, looks like hostility. The Radcliffes had their own orchards and rarely shopped here. However, the local people knew very well who Lauro was, and of his recent transference from Hubert’s mysterious home to Mary Radcliffe’s spectacularly rich one. Lauro, in his smart clothes, the transparent beige shirt and fine-striped pink trousers, was to be treated with a touch of deference. What would he desire? Grapes, peaches fresh this morning, fine tomatoes…?
    Lauro desired some plants, strong and lasting, with the roots, for transplanting.
    What type of plants? What did the gardeners at the Radcliffes’ advise?
    ‘Oh, no,’ Lauro said, rather impatiently, almost as if to suggest that not any roots, not any plants, would do, ‘they’re for my mother’s grave. I’m going to visit her at the cemetery.’
    The woman who had been served, although she had received her change, made no sign of leaving, but entered the discussion. Surely the Radcliffes had plenty of plants and to spare…?
    ‘For Mama,’ said Lauro with a haughty masculine bark that sent the women scurrying, ‘I prefer to pay.’ And he bought four chrysanthemum plants not yet in flower and rattled his money while they were being carefully wrapped in newspaper and placed in an orange-coloured plastic shopping bag. He left, and was watched to his car. It was only when he was seen to unlock the empty car, there on the harmless street, that he looked behind him and saw the two women exchanging glances. Carefully, he spat on the pavement. Then he got into his car and drove away too fast. Suspicious old fat cows, what did it matter if they knew what he might be up to, and he knew that they knew that he knew, since, if he put his mind to it he could easily make as many accurate guesses about their doings as they about his. It was for this reason that he had not even bothered to take the precaution of buying his plants in Rome: in Rome they were twice the price, whereas in Nemi they were cheap and he didn’t need to care what the people thought. So ended one of those telepathic encounters that go on all the time among compatriots who have foreigners in their midst.
    Arriving in Rome, Lauro made first for the cemetery. He found his mother’s grave, well-tended and neat, with its hovering marble angel and the little inset photograph. There was room here for his father; their five children would later buy their own burial-plots in the new cemetery, since this one would then be fully occupied. ‘Cara Mama,’ said Lauro. He had brought his packages in the bright orange plastic shopping bag from the car. He had unpacked the healthy plant-roots, the little strong trowel and another newspaper-wrapped package containing the black leather box with most of the coins that Mary had given over to him the afternoon before.
    Some people passed, old people on the way to visit their dead. They gave Lauro a muted ‘Buon giorno’, inclining their heads towards him with approving piety. Lauro, on his knees, dutifully digging and tending his mother’s flower-bed, looked up and returned the greeting with wistful repetition, one quiet ‘Buon giorno’ for each of the three figures who passed. He was a nice boy in their eyes, which made him feel nice as he dug. The figures, a fat woman in black, a thin man and another, less fat woman with difficult-walking feet, passed from his life. When he had dug enough and laid on the grass verge some of the flowers and plants he had dislodged in the process, he opened up the sheets of newspaper which contained the black leather box. He had almost thrown away the box, keeping only the coins to bury, but it was such a well-made, a well-bred box, such as Lauro sometimes saw in the shops and boutiques of Rome, and it was so connected, now, with the desirable coins and the casual and exclusive quality of Mary and Maggie in