Читать книгу A Postcard from Italy - Alex Brown - Страница 11

Monday afternoon at work and Grace was engrossed in another, more fabulous world, where parties on board yachts on the breathtakingly beautiful Italian Riviera drinking limoncello cocktails and pure glamour prevailed. Connie was happy, meeting and mixing with Italian socialites and a new friend … a glamorous, vivacious Italian woman they all called Cristal due to her love of champagne.

Grace carefully turned the page of the red leather-bound diary embossed with gold initials, CD, on the cover and eagerly read on, revelling in how very ‘Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in their heyday holidaying in Portofino’ it all was. Connie seemed to be having the time of her life, as if living inside an incredibly romantic Hollywood film.

Italy in springtime really is exquisite. We drove all the way along the old coastal road today from Santa Margherita to Portofino with the top down and the glorious sunshine hot on our bare heads. With glistening waves swirling around the rocks on one side and lush green grass dotted with pastel-coloured houses on the other, I couldn’t resist untying my headscarf and truly throwing caution to the wind as it ruffled my hair and lifted my spirits.

The boat was waiting for us in the harbour and after climbing aboard I rather enjoyed my first time at sea! The waves propelled us, quick as flash, to our destination, the tiny bay of San Fruttuoso, where we swept ashore to explore the atmospheric old Benedictine monastery. Mind you, I had a terrible fright when a squealing wild boar piglet scampered from the undergrowth and almost ran right into my legs on its way off into the pine-clad hillside. Thank heavens I had kept my gloves on as I had to pat its little rump in order to shoo it away as it double-backed and came at me for a second time.

Later, after a scrumptious supper of roasted octopus on a bed of velvety tomatoes and olive tapenade under a honeysuckle-entwined trellis on the beach, we strolled arm in arm across the sand and then ventured up and down the steps around the monastery, picking wild mint on our way, which we later discovered was a rather splendid idea, as we dipped the leaves into our cocktails when we got back on board the boat for the moonlit voyage home to Portofino …

Sighing in contentment and wishing she was there, hundreds of miles away in the sunshine, eating roasted octopus and patting wild-boar piglets in the tiny bay of San Fruttuoso, Grace closed the diary. And then, on hearing Larry call out her name, she glanced at the time on her phone and realised that she had been sitting (very carefully on the dust sheet near the edge, so as not to mark it) on Mrs Donato’s peacock-patterned chaise longue in the corner of unit 28 for almost an hour. Larry was probably wondering what she was doing and, more importantly, why she hadn’t come back to the office yet to make a start on sending out this month’s invoice letters.

‘Coming,’ she called out in reply, and hurriedly stood up, but then Larry was in the doorway. ‘Sorry. I was just …’ She stopped talking and looked at the floor, mentally kicking herself for losing track of time.

‘It’s fine, Grace.’ He smiled kindly, gesturing with his right hand for her to sit back down. But she remained standing, keen to see what his reaction would be as he properly saw inside the unit. His face didn’t disappoint. After casting an eye over Mrs Donato’s belongings, he let out a long, impressed whistle and raised his wiry eyebrows.

‘Wow! This is quite something.’

‘It sure is. And it’s going to be a proper adventure going through it all.’ Grace’s face lit up.

‘Well, there’s no immediate rush. The items aren’t going anywhere soon, not after being here for almost thirty years. But before you get stuck in, I wanted to make sure everything was OK? Betty and I were getting worried about you; you’ve been gone ages. We thought you must have fallen asleep or something.’ He smiled gently. ‘And who could blame you … I just checked my emails and saw one from you earlier this morning … sent around 4 a.m. Is everything OK, Grace?’

‘Yes, I … I’m sorry about that …’

‘Why would you be sorry? I was fast asleep at that time, but how come you weren’t?’ Larry chuckled, making his shoulders bob up and down.

‘Oh. I … um, I couldn’t sleep,’ she said, not wanting to go into the real reason she had been awake all night. That Cora had insisted Grace sit by the window in her bedroom on lookout duty, convinced she’d heard a noise coming from the garden below, and telling her, ‘You’ll never live with yourself, Grace. Sure you won’t, if someone breaks in and strangles me in the middle of the night while you’re fast asleep now without a care in the world.’ And Grace had loathed herself for not reasoning with her mother and telling her that it was highly unlikely someone was going to break in and strangle her … because it was more likely the person to strangle her would be her own sleep-deprived daughter who was already inside the house! But seriously, Grace knew she should have been stronger and stood up to her mother for the sake of her own nocturnal needs. But it had been late and she had been at a low ebb, knackered and not in the mood for another fight. So instead she had done as her mother had told her to, and sat in the armchair dozing as she tried to stay awake ‘just in case’ her mother’s fears turned into a reality. Because, at the end of the day, Grace knew that what Cora said was true, especially once she had planted the seed of doubt inside her head … how would she live with herself if something happened to her mother on her watch?

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Grace. Especially if it was work that was keeping you awake … I’m sure Mrs Donato’s whereabouts could have waited until today,’ he said, shaking his head as he referred to the email that Grace had sent to him in the early hours.

‘Sure, Larry, I know … but I didn’t want to forget any of my ideas. So that’s why I typed them into my phone and emailed them to you.’ Grace lowered her eyes, grateful not to have to go into detail about her own ineptitude when it came to standing up to her mother. Plus she didn’t want to complain about Cora and then come across as self-pitying. ‘I’ve not been able to stop thinking about Mrs Donato and wanted to give you some suggestions of how we might find her. I guess I got carried away and … well, it is pretty exciting seeing all her glamorous belongings in here. And I was also wondering why we had let her account go so far into arrears? It’s well over a year,’ she added, remembering the dates in the paperwork on the clipboard. ‘We usually do something long before now.’

‘Hmm, well that’s true. We do.’ Larry looked momentarily evasive, then a little embarrassed as his cheeks dotted pink. ‘Between me and you … well, I …’ He coughed. ‘I’m not going to lie … I guess I have a bit of a soft spot for Mrs Donato,’ he confessed. ‘But, please not a word to our Betty, because you know that I adore my dear wife.’ He lifted his shoulders to emphasise this fact. ‘Plus, she’d have my guts for garters if she ever knew.’ Larry pulled a mock-petrified face then, making Grace laugh as she swiftly nodded her agreement, touched by his gentlemanly consideration for his wife that came from a bygone time where honour was everything.

Grace doubted Betty would have his guts for garters though. She would probably chuckle and admonish him to busy himself to keep from distractions! Just like she had when Mrs Bassett, a willowy blonde widow, had swept in to the customer waiting area to retrieve her late husband’s stamp collection and had flirted outrageously with Larry in the hope of him waiving the closing bill. He had been just about to as well, when Betty had stepped in and said that payment would be very welcome, thank you very much, as she plucked a credit card from Mrs Bassett’s grasp.

‘So you’ve actually met Mrs Donato?’ Grace asked excitedly. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to meet her too – that’s if we can track her down. What’s she like? I’ve been reading this.’ She lifted the diary into the air to show him, but then fell silent on feeling her cheeks flush pink. ‘Sorry. I … probably shouldn’t have been so nosey.’ She waggled the diary around before bringing her hand back down beside her.

‘Oh it’s fine,’ Larry said gently. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t,’ and he tapped a finger to the side of his nose. ‘Besides, how else are we going to get in touch with her. Which year is it? The diary … anything recent to give us some clues as to where she might be now?’

‘Sorry, no. And at first glance there doesn’t seem to be any kind of order to the diaries and notes written on scraps of paper. Everything is very sporadic and with some of the diaries completely empty, or with just a few lines written in them here and there. Though I did manage to find this one, dated 1955, which is pretty full up – where she’s living in Italy and it sounds so idyllic. Listen to this.’ Grace quickly reopened the diary and read a section of it aloud. ‘The warm, salty sea air is infused with the marvellous scent of citrus from the lemon and orange groves further down on the hillside. The dazzling azure-blue sea laps gently in the distance and I simply can’t imagine a more perfect place to be than standing here on the veranda with my truelove watching the plump, pink sun setting on the horizon.’

‘Well I never!’ Larry folded his arms and nodded slowly, clearly impressed by Mrs Donato’s prose. ‘Those are mighty fine words, and with a clue for us right there too.’

‘A clue?’

‘Yes … a truelove! With any luck, he’s Mr Donato by now. So we’ll find him and he will lead us to Mrs Donato. Yes, that’s what we will do.’ Larry nodded, clearly resolute about the best way forward for solving this matter.

Grace pulled out her phone and tapped through to her To Do list to make a note to read on through all the paperwork in unit 28 to see if she could find mention of a Mr Donato. Or a wedding. Surely, Connie, being the romantic she appeared to be in the diary, would write about her own wedding.

‘It’s all there in gorgeous detail. Connie is an incredibly romantic writer,’ she told Larry. ‘Reading her diary is like reading a beautiful, romantic novel. And she lived in a powder pink villa surrounded by lemon and orange groves on a hilltop in Santa Margherita. I googled it and it’s part of the glamorous Italian Riviera and just along the coast near Portofino in Italy, apparently. Imagine living somewhere as wonderful as that? Or she did in the 1950s! But I’m guessing that’s not the case any more if her stuff is in our storage unit here in drizzly south London.’ Grace patted her curls, which had turned into a giant auburn frizz ball after falling victim to the inclement weather at this time of year in London, when she got caught in a sudden downpour while counting the steps to the bus stop this morning.

‘Connie?’ Larry asked.

‘Yes, Mrs Donato. Connie is short for Constance. That’s her first name … well, the name her family and friends call her. It’s on a number of letters and cards in the first suitcase. From what I can make out, she grew up in London and then moved to Italy later. But I’d have to put it all together into a proper timeline to be sure …’

‘OK, Grace. But do we have a current address for her? Or a relative? A son or daughter perhaps? A bank statement? Anything to give us a clue as to her current whereabouts and why she hasn’t paid us? Or how about a first name for Mr Donato?’

‘Not yet. But I’m working on it. Please can I have a bit more time to go through and catalogue everything properly? There’s a lot of paperwork. But a week or two should do it.’

‘Hmm, I know I said there was no immediate rush, but we can’t afford to have units unpaid for, so we need to start getting an income for this space asap. I’ve already been a sentimental fool for far too long over this one. Perhaps we should make a start on getting it listed at auction and hopefully someone will buy the whole lot swiftly. Then we can recoup our losses and re-let the unit right away.’ He shook his head as if deep in thought as he tapped the tip of a biro on the doorframe.

‘I understand,’ Grace conceded, reluctantly, but then had an idea. ‘Some of these items are antiques and must be worth a fortune … much more than she owes us in missed storage payments, so we’ll easily recover our losses if we can’t find her and have to sell them. What do you reckon?’ She felt alive at the prospect of piecing together the life story of Connie Donato or, to use her gloriously glamorous full name, Mrs Constance di Donato. ‘And you did say that you have a soft spot for her …’ she added, hoping to appeal to his better nature. ‘It doesn’t feel fair to not even try to track her down.’ Grace inhaled, willing him to agree. ‘Surely, her belongings are as important as the old soldier’s medals? There’s a whole lifetime inside this unit waiting to be discovered …’

A short silence followed as Larry creased his forehead and gazed around the unit, seeming to take it all in. Grace inwardly crossed her fingers, because if he let her have a week or two, she was quite certain she could unearth something in amongst Connie’s belongings that would give them a clue. If not to her whereabouts, then a relative, or even a friend who might be able to help. The items in the unit were unique and far too personal to be sold off at auction.

‘OK,’ he eventually agreed. ‘A week or so. Two tops! But only because I feel sorry for her.’

‘Thank you,’ she breathed out, only realising then that she had been holding her breath for too long making her feel dizzy. ‘But why do you feel sorry for her?’ she asked, blinking a few times to clear her head.

‘Because,’ he started and then paused. ‘I don’t really know, to be honest … I mean, it was donkey’s years ago, of course, yet feels like only yesterday, that’s how distinctive she was. But I still remember when she first came here to sign up for the unit. Mrs Donato stuck in my mind. You see, there was an aura about her.’

‘An aura?’ Grace felt intrigued and widened her eyes in anticipation of hearing more.

‘Yes. Imperious. Regal almost. But kind of sad and lonely too. She was smartly dressed, in a mink coat with leather gloves and a hat … it was still OK to wear real fur in those days,’ he quickly clarified. ‘And she was wearing this expensive scent … I don’t know what it was – not something our Betty would wear. Anyway, I remember it lingered in the office for ages afterwards. Betty and I joked about it for weeks, saying, “Mrs Donato is still here” every morning when we unlocked the office door and got a great big walloping whiff.’

Grace immediately wondered which perfume it was, and from what she had already deduced about Connie, imagined it to be something romantic yet sophisticated, classic and expensive, like Cartier or Van Cleef and Arpels. Grace had been walking through Selfridges’ beauty hall one time on a shopping trip with Matthew, and the sales assistant had spritzed her with both of these fragrances and then given her some small sample sprays. She had treasured those tiny phials, eking them out as a way to hold on to that moment in time with her own truelove, as it was later that very day, over lunch, that Matthew had proposed.

Perfume was such a powerful evocation of memories: one whiff and Grace was back there with Matthew by her side, oohing and aahing over the dazzling display counters in Selfridges. Then, after the shopping trip, they had found an authentic Italian café in a quiet back street with round tables covered in red gingham tablecloths and candles in wine bottles with wax trickling down the sides. They had sipped limoncello cocktails and tucked into big bowls of buttery soft ravioli stuffed with shrimp and drizzled with pesto and pecorino shavings. Creamy raspberry gelato was for pudding, followed by mugs of hot chocolate so deliciously thick they had been able to stand their teaspoons up in it and take bets to see whose spoon would topple over first.

Matthew had joked about the leaning tower of Pisa being right there inside his mug and how they should book a holiday to Tuscany to see the tower and all the other glorious Italian sights for themselves. He had then pushed back his chair and actually performed the whole chivalrous ceremony of asking her to marry him amidst much whooping and cheering from all the other diners. ‘Of course I will marry you,’ she had laughed, ‘but only if you get up off the floor at once.’ She had never been one for showy displays of affection. The way everyone had stared and then come over to shake Matthew’s hand and tell him how marvellous he was. She remembered his smile, like he was the happiest man alive. And it had felt right. A perfect day.

‘But her eyes. I’ll never forget her eyes,’ Larry continued, bringing Grace back to the moment, so she tucked that particular memory away for now; it was probably for the best as it never did her any good to remember the good times with Matthew … it only made her current, lukewarm relationship with Phil feel like a consolation prize. ‘You can tell a lot about a person from their eyes.’ Larry leant against the doorframe and tilted his head upwards as he ruminated.

‘Here, do you want to sit down? Come and rest your knees,’ Grace offered, gesturing to the chaise.

‘Ah, no thank you, my dear. My orthopaedic consultant said that I have to keep active if I don’t want the old joints to cease up. Road to ruin that is … not keeping active.’ And he did a halfhearted knee bend as if to punctuate the point, making Grace wonder if she should try to encourage Cora to be more mobile. Maybe she could manage some arm stretches at least. It certainly wouldn’t hurt for her to try. She could sit up in bed and reach up for the hoist and bash her walking stick hard on the floor, so it was worth a go. Plus she was younger than Larry by over a decade. Grace made a mental note to mention it to her mother when she got home from work.

‘If you’re sure …’ Grace smiled at Larry. ‘So, what were they like, Connie’s eyes?’

‘Deep and pensive. As if she had lived a life of note, but with adversity and sorrow. Haunting, almost. That’s why she’s stuck in my memory. I’ve not ever seen eyes like that since …’

‘Oh, poor Connie,’ Grace said, even more determined to find her and discover her story. ‘And thank you for giving me time to find out more.’

Larry smiled and moved into the centre of the unit.

‘Two weeks tops!’ He shook his head and sighed good-heartedly. ‘Come on, how about I give you a hand to sort through some of her things … let’s see what we can find. If we have no luck in finding a lead of any kind, then we can always get Betty to ask her pal, Maggie – the one from the knit-and-natter group, to look on the computer.

‘Maggie who works at the coroner’s office?’ Grace said, optimistically.

‘Yes, that’s the one. She does family trees for people too and has even managed to trace right back to pirate times for some of her clients.’

‘Really? I didn’t even know that was possible,’ Grace said, fascinated, and wondering if she could be related to a proper pirate. She quite fancied the idea of that. It was quirky and unusual and certainly sounded more interesting than coming from a long line of potato farmers who had lived in stone huts on the desolate, windswept fields of the remotest part of southern Ireland.

‘It’s all there in the computer these days,’ Larry confirmed. ‘Maggie was very helpful when we were trying to track down the owner of those medals that time. We would never have known he had died or had a son up in Scotland without her help.’

‘True.’ But Grace really hoped this wasn’t the case for Connie. After retrieving a picture from the carpet that had fallen out of the back of the diary, Grace studied it and found herself looking at a slim, elegant young woman, with a row of yachts and small sailing boats moored behind her in the background. Rows of narrow, tall houses with shops and cafés with the awnings out curved along the water’s edge to her right, a church or a lighthouse peeping over the top on the pine-tree-clad cliff. She was wearing a silk scarf knotted at the side of her neck, pedal pushers and a stripy, boat-necked sun top and looked very 1950s chic – just like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday – another one of Grace’s favourite films. With a handbag in the crook of her elbow, sunglasses and leather gloves in her hands, Connie looked breezy and happy at first glance, but on closer inspection there appeared to be a sadness surrounding her too, with her almond-shaped eyes gazing sideways and ever so slightly downcast. Or maybe she was just shy and didn’t like having her picture taken. It was hard to tell for sure. But Larry was right, Connie did indeed have pensive eyes. And a dazzling smile. And was strikingly beautiful … if the faded black-and-white photo was anything to go by. Grace really hoped she hadn’t died.

Grace showed the photo to Larry who turned it over and read the old-fashioned cursive words in faint black ink on the back.

‘Connie. Portofino harbour. 1952,’ he read aloud and then commented, ‘very nice indeed.’ He passed the picture to Grace who slid it back where it belonged inside the diary.

‘But why hasn’t anyone been in contact? There must be someone – who took this photo? And who wrote Connie’s name on the back? A family member? Mr Donato? Connie’s child?’ Grace was sure Connie had a daughter as she had seen mention of a baby in one of the letters she’d found in the first suitcase. And then there was the pink fluffy teddy bear. It was tucked inside a bundle of delicately hand-knitted baby clothes – a pretty matinee jacket, a bonnet with satin ribbons and bootees in soft pink and white wool. And all of a sudden a wave of sadness came over her, for she knew that Connie was dead. In her heart she just knew. It was the most likely reason for her storage payments to have stopped, it was usually the way, and she couldn’t bear the thought of the unit being sold at auction to whoever was willing to stump up the highest bid, as had happened on rare occasions when all avenues to trace the owner or a relative had been exhausted.

Grace felt it important to make sure it didn’t happen this time; that a complete stranger should rummage through Connie’s things with scant regard to the life that she had lived. She wasn’t really sure why she felt so strongly about it. Maybe it was seeing the photo; it had somehow made Connie real, and now Grace cared about her. Or maybe it was the pair of worn-out pink satin pointe ballet shoes that she had found in a black leather oval-shaped dancing case underneath the chaise longue. Was Connie a dancer too? Was that where the feeling of affinity came from?

Whatever it was, Grace knew that she had to find out more about the elusive Mrs Donato with her sad eyes. And who knew, maybe Grace’s intuition was wrong and Connie was still alive: it was possible. Perhaps she had returned to Italy and was living the high life in her powder pink villa on the hillside and just didn’t give a damn about a load of old stuff deposited back in London, having long ago forgotten about its existence. Or perhaps she was old and senile and didn’t even remember the contents of her storage unit. Maybe someone else was managing her finances and had simply forgotten, or didn’t even know they were supposed to send cheques to pay for a storage unit in London.

There were so many possible scenarios and Grace felt determined to find out more. Compelled to, even. And if there was a daughter, then surely she would want to sort through her mother’s belongings herself. It was even possible that Mrs Donato’s daughter didn’t know that her mother had died … if they were estranged for some reason. So it was entirely possible she had no idea the items were stored here … just like the soldier’s son in Scotland, who’d had no idea that his dad’s medals were here at Cohen’s Convenient Storage Company on an industrial estate in southeast London.

‘Who knows, Grace.’ Larry shook his head. ‘Something I’ve come to realise in this line of work is that human beings are complex. Families, especially. We’ve had all kinds of situations over the years with the storage units. Divorce, deaths, affairs, even marriage, and that’s supposed to be a happy time for people. But weddings can cause tension too, especially when a newly married couple come to clear out a unit. Do you remember the Marples?’

‘Oh yes, how could I forget?’ Grace pulled a face on remembering the debacle that had ensued when Mrs Marple discovered that her new husband had stored a load of memorabilia of his time with an ex-girlfriend. Photo albums, clothes, letters, souvenirs from their travels were all dumped in the big rubbish container amidst much shouting and flouncing after Mr Marple had settled the bill.

‘So, where shall we start?’ Grace said cheerily as she put the diary down on the dressing table and looked at the jewellery box, determined to unravel the mystery of Mrs Connie Donato’s life and reach a happy outcome.

‘Here is as good a place as any,’ Larry nodded, lifting the padded lid of the jewellery box.

A moment of silence followed.

Grace glanced inside, looked at Larry, and then they both gasped in unison.

‘These stones can’t be real … surely?’ Grace managed, going to touch the sapphire- and diamond-encrusted bracelet nestling in its own little velvet tray inside the box. She hesitated, unsure if she should let the tip of her finger even dare to make contact with such an exquisite piece of jewellery. What if she damaged it somehow? She would spend a lifetime trying to save enough money to replace the bracelet, if it turned out to be real and therefore worth an absolute fortune.

‘I sure hope not.’ Larry carefully picked up the bracelet, worry etched on his aged face. ‘Because if it is, then Mrs Donato definitely isn’t insured for such a valuable item.’

‘I wonder why she stored it here then? Surely a bank deposit box would have been more secure?’ Grace looked at the other items: a dazzling ruby ring, a silver – or was it platinum? – short chain with a Star of David dangling from the end, a small diamond at each of the star’s six points. A tiny silver expanding bangle, the kind that babies are sometimes given soon after they are born. Three pairs of sparkly drop earrings – one pair with diamonds, another with the darkest blue sapphire stones and the third with the palest, creamiest pearls haloed with yet more diamonds.

‘This is way out of our league,’ Larry exclaimed as he swept a hand through his hair. ‘We’ll need to get these jewels examined to see if they are genuine, but if it turns out they are then … well, I can’t believe they’ve just been sitting here for all these years.’ And after carefully closing the lid, he lifted the jewellery box up with both hands.

‘What shall we do?’ Grace asked.

‘Let’s get the jewellery box into the safe at least, just in case the jewels are the real deal, and then decide where we go from there. We need a contact, a lead, something to get us started on our quest to find Mrs Donato.’

‘So we’re definitely not going to list the unit for auction?’ Grace checked optimistically, feeling excited.

‘No. But, like I said, let’s give it a couple of weeks. You go through all the suitcases, read the letters and see what you can find. I’m sure Betty won’t mind holding the fort in reception. And I’ll make a start on sending out the invoice letters tomorrow; it’ll give me a chance for a nice sit-down … now that I’ve done my exercise for the week by coming over here to the oldest and furthest part of the warehouse to find you,’ he laughed.

‘Thanks, Larry. I’ll get on it right away!’ And she turned towards the pile of suitcases, keen to get started. Then an idea came to her. ‘How about your nephew? The one in America?’ she suggested hurriedly, pivoting to face Larry again. Her mind was working overtime now in figuring out the quickest and best way to find Connie Donato, who was clearly a woman of considerable means … if the jewellery was genuine.

‘Ellis?’

‘Yes, doesn’t he work at an auction house?’ Grace looked at Larry.

‘He does!’ Larry jubilantly lifted the jewellery box up, as if in celebration of this fact. Something to set them on the right path in tracking down Mrs Donato.

‘Then perhaps he can tell us if the jewellery is real … or if it’s just paste with pretty coloured plastic bits and nothing to get excited about after all.’

Larry brought the jewellery box back down as he added, ‘Ah, but Ellis works in the Fine Art department. He won’t know about diamonds and suchlike.’ And he turned to leave with a deflated look on his face.

‘But … hold on.’ Grace darted around the back of the chaise longue. ‘Maybe he can take a look at these instead.’ She gestured to the framed paintings. ‘I can take photos of them and you could email them to Ellis.’

‘Yes. Good thinking, Grace, you’re always full of good ideas.’ Larry put the jewellery box back on the dressing table and walked over to where she was standing by the paintings. He lifted one out to take a look. ‘Now I’m no art dealer but this looks pretty impressive to me. None of your mass-produced printed stuff here! You know, the kind of thing that you find in IKEA. No … this is a proper oil painting. And thankfully we have the correct climate control in all the units, even the older ones such as this, as I wouldn’t want to be held responsible for such a wonderful work of art getting ruined with mould or mildew. It’d be a travesty.’

He carefully touched the corner of the canvas with a look of relief on his face. An exquisite scene of Venice’s famous Grand Canal was displayed before them, with tall, creamy-caramel-coloured buildings flanking either side of the water’s edge. Gondolas on glittering blue water under an atmospheric cloud-streaked sky led up to two marble domes with delicately intricate detailing. ‘And a skilled artist by the looks of it … see how he or she has captured the detail of the cornicing on the domes right there?’ Larry paused to point at a beautifully impressive building in the top right corner of the painting. ‘The famous Salute. It’s a church. And built as a thank you when the plague ended in 1630, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Gosh, that must have taken the builders years to create. It’s incredible.’ Grace studied the picture; it reminded her of the 1950s film, Summertime, starring Katherine Hepburn. She’d only watched it again a few months back and had been swept away in the gorgeous, romantic scenery of Venice’s magnificent waterways.

‘It’s breathtaking up close,’ Larry said, carefully placing the painting on the chaise longue.

‘Have you actually seen it in real life then?’

‘Oh yes, I took Betty there on a mini-break back in the day. We were young and carefree, and this was long before the nippers came along and you could just up and do all that spur-of-the-moment stuff.’ He smiled wistfully, as if remembering the lovely time he’d had with Betty in Venice. ‘And we hadn’t been married long, so it’s a wonder we saw anything much at all outside of our hotel room,’ he added, doing an exaggerated wink. Grace put a hand over mouth to stifle a giggle as she really couldn’t imagine Larry and Betty cavorting in bed all day and night long. ‘Ah, those were the days.’ He pondered quietly for a moment before rubbing his palms together. ‘Anyway, enough of the melancholy – shall we make a start in snapping some pics then?’

Grace lifted her phone up and took several pictures of the Venice Grand Canal painting, wondering if she should put some filters on to enhance the scene, but thought better of it as Ellis would most likely need to see the original work in all its naked glory. She repeated the process with all the paintings, and there were a dozen at least, many in the same style. They couldn’t make out the marking in the bottom right corner; it wasn’t even a proper signature and gave them no clues as to whether Connie herself was the artist. The thought had crossed Grace’s mind, though, after reading her diaries – the imaginative style of her writing showed that she clearly had a creative talent. Perhaps painting was in her repertoire, too, and that’s why she went to Italy … to capture its beauty on canvas.

Twenty minutes later, and Grace had photos of every painting.

‘I’ll email them to you,’ she told Larry as he stowed the last painting back in its place.

‘Thank you, Grace. I’m so pleased we have you here with all the good ideas,’ he said kindly.

‘Really?’ she said without thinking, unused to impromptu praise.

‘Of course,’ he nodded. ‘And don’t be worrying about being late now and again, I know it’s hard for you at home.’ A silence hung in the air between them as Grace studied a fingernail. ‘The important thing is that we have you here.’

‘Thank you,’ she managed quietly, fearful now that Larry being nice might make her emotional.

As if sensing this, he jovially added, ‘So how about we have a lovely cup of tea?’

‘I’d like that,’ she breathed, grateful to be talking about something else. ‘And Larry …’ She hesitated, wondering if he would agree to another idea.

‘Go on,’ he prompted.

‘Well, I was wondering if I could take some pictures of Connie’s diaries and letters too? I know I can’t take the originals home, but I could read through them when I’m up in the nigh—’ She stopped talking. ‘Um, if I get time,’ she added. Larry looked at her, momentarily hesitating, as if he wanted to say something more but wasn’t sure if he should.

‘Grace, you can read through them here tomorrow,’ he settled for a few seconds later. ‘There’s really no need to take on more work, I’m sure you have enough to be getting on with at home as it is …’

‘But I’m not sure I can wait until then. Please Larry, it will give me something interesting to do …’ She looked away, disliking how desperate she sounded. But it was the truth. The thought of delving into Connie’s life gave her a sense of purpose, and it would be a break too from the monotony of her usual night-time routine of waiting for her mother to fall asleep … just so she could do something for herself, if only for a short while, uninterrupted, and without fear of being bellowed at and then chastised for not coming to her aid fast enough.

‘Well, in that case, I’ll get the jewellery box into the safe while you get cracking on reading more of that diary to see if you can spot some clues.’

A little while later, Larry returned with two mugs of tea.

‘Betty made it just how you like it,’ he said, handing a mug to her. ‘And said to give you this too.’ He pulled a bundle wrapped in kitchen towel from his pocket. Inside was another generous slice of Betty’s delicious babka. ‘She also said I was to give you a hand with going through Mrs Donato’s things and she’ll take care of the invoice letters.’

‘Oh, that’s kind of her. And thank you, Larry.’ Her eyes lit up as she took the cake. She hadn’t had time again to eat a proper lunch, just half a homemade ham sandwich on the bus back to work. But at least Cora had agreed to serving herself a cheese ploughman’s with a big buttered baguette and tomato soup from a flask while Grace had Googled local engineers in the hope that one could come and take a look at the washing machine that was now playing up. She devoured the cake and took a slurp of tea while Larry lifted the first suitcase from the pile and flipped open the lid.

‘Well I never! There must be dozens of diaries, letters and papers in here,’ he said, placing his hands on his hips in preparation for the mammoth task ahead. ‘Right, let’s make a start. I’ll open and place each one on the chaise longue while you snap a pic, and then I’ll put it all back in the suitcase afterwards. If we get a system going then we might be done by home time …’