The House by the Sea. Louise Douglas

she recalled how, when she was alone as a child, playing in the villa’s gardens, she used to go to the little graveyard and summon her dead sisters and brother to play with her; how they were her imaginary friends, older than her, and younger at the same time. She used to sneak into her mother’s room to talk to the photographs of the babies; she brought little gifts to the graves to keep them happy. Usually they were kind: when she was lonely or frightened, they came to her and comforted her, but sometimes they were jealous of Anna, because she was alive and they were dead. Then they’d play tricks on her. They’d break glasses and plates and Anna was blamed, or they’d lock her out of her room or shut her in a cupboard.

      ‘That must have been frightening for you,’ I’d said. We were sitting together in the front room of her London house, sunlight streaming through the window.

      Anna took another sip from her glass.

      ‘I felt responsible for them,’ she’d replied. ‘I understood why they were angry. It didn’t seem fair that I had everything and they had nothing.’ Then she’d taken another sip and she’d laughed. Her teeth had been stained red. ‘It wasn’t real of course! It was all made up. I was just a lonely, introverted, stupid little child!’

      Now I wondered if part of the reason for her bequest to us was to protect the graves of these lost children, these siblings who had never drawn breath but who had been such an important part of Anna’s early years. And another thought came to me, one so crazy that I pushed it away and wouldn’t acknowledge it.

      Still, it was there.

      If three stillborn DeLuca babies could come back to life, even in a small way, at the Villa della Madonna del Mare, was it possible, was there the faintest, smallest hope that I might be able to find Daniel there too?

      13

      Joe and I returned to the car and drove back along the spine of the headland, through flat, marshy land at the base of the cliff. The sun glinted from pylons and mechanical equipment at an electricity station in the distance. A giant billboard with a picture of a blonde woman modelling Intimissimi lingerie marked the junction with the coast road, which climbed steeply. I tried to relax but the cliff side fall to the left was perilous. There was no barrier and Joe drove quickly, one palm flat against the steering wheel, his fingers not even closed around it. I couldn’t help imaging the Fiat bouncing down against the rocks, somersaulting, crashing into the backs of the holiday villas that were built along the beach. I was used to travelling at Fitz’s ponderous pace, she gripping both sides of the steering wheel of her ancient VW camper, leaning forward, her foot hovering over the brake pedal, tensed and alert to any forthcoming potential hazard, real or imaginary. I could barely remember the last time I’d ridden in a vehicle driven by anyone other than Fitz. My life was mostly lived within a few square miles: Fitz’s house, the school, the places I walked the dogs, the shops and the library, all of it travelled slowly, safely. My comfort zone.

      This was different. Two thousand miles from home, the headland on which the villa stood was silhouetted against the dazzling sea, shimmering like a mirage, and Joe and I zipped along the coast road in the Fiat, he having no regard for the fact that a blown tyre or a patch of oil would send us hurtling to our deaths.

      Soon enough, we reached the villa. Joe parked the car in the same spot as before. The sun was high in the sky, the colours dazzling. Light shone on the whitewashed façades of the beach houses, it glared from windows, roof tiles, parked cars. The beach was busy; littered with parasols and towels. Close to our end, a small white dog ran at the sea, chasing the rippling frill as the waves broke along the shore. A young woman in a red bikini clapped her hands and laughed at the dog’s antics. ‘Bravo, Toto!’ she cried. ‘Bravo!’

      I helped Joe unload the bags of cleaning provisions and food and we carried them through the gates, up the drive and to the front door of the villa. The garden was lovelier in the bright daylight than it had been in the glow of dusk; its rampant, gleeful chaos, the jungle of greens and the jewelled colours of the flowers seeming more alive than ever: fronds and tendrils and opening blooms reaching up into the beautiful blue of the sky; lemons and oranges grew profusely on the trees, insects and birds were everywhere. I wondered where the graveyard was, where the three lost babies had been buried. The thought of them lying somewhere nearby sent a chill the length of my spine, but I dismissed it. It was a beautiful day and we were in a lovely place; the sun was shining and I’d be an idiot to be distracted by the darkness of my imagination.

      Joe and I were outside the villa’s front door, in the same spot where Anna and her two friends had posed for the picture reproduced on the poster on the memorial wall. I sat on a stone planter that contained nothing but dead foliage and waited while Joe prised away the planks that had been hammered over the front door with the claw end of a hammer. The wood splintered as he pulled. He tossed the planks down to one side, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm and turned to me. ‘Where’s the key?’

      I gave it to him and he put it in the lock, turned it. The door swung open with a sorrowful groan. We exchanged tentative glances and then Joe stepped into the gloom. I followed. Something crunched beneath the soles of my trainers.

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Salt.’

      ‘Salt?’

      Joe kicked at a small ridge of grubby crystals spread the width of the front door. He picked up the plastic sack that had once contained the salt granules to show me.

      ‘Why is it there?’ I asked.

      Joe mumbled something.

      ‘What?’

      ‘It’s to protect the villa. It’s a Sicilian thing.’

      ‘Protect it from what? Slugs?’

      ‘It’s just what they do here,’ said Joe, defensive again.

      I heard something, like a sigh. I turned; nothing was there.

      ‘What was that?’ I asked Joe.

      ‘I don’t know.’

      As he spoke, something fluttered from the darkness and darted towards us. I gasped and ducked, covering my head with my arms and Joe ducked too and then laughed.

      ‘Oh Jesus, it’s just a sparrow!’ He stood straight. ‘Poor little sod must have been trapped.’

      I smiled, but inside my heart was pounding.

      Because of the shutters, the interior of the villa was dark as a cave, but behind us sunbeams spread through the open door across the ornate tiles of the hallway floor. I stepped slowly over the ridge of salt into my own shadow. Despite the musty smell, the floor was clean, save a feather or two. A giant, crystal chandelier, draped with cobwebs, hung high above us, filling in the dome of the ceiling, glass droplets trapping the reflection of light from the floor tiles and sending them out again; twinkling the effect of an elaborate disco ball.

      Joe tried the light switch, but nothing happened.

      Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Two large items of furniture stood in the hallway, both covered with dust sheets. To one side of the door was an arch shaped alcove with candleholders on either side. The hallway opened into a long, dark room to its right and, to the left, stairs led upwards. Three other doors along its length were closed. A small brown object, like a fossilised croissant, lay at the foot of the stairs.

      Joe picked the thing up and tossed it outside.

      ‘What was it?’ I asked.

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Joe?’

      ‘It was a sheep’s horn.’

      ‘A sheep’s horn?’

      ‘It’s to keep the villa safe. Don’t worry about it.’

      I gave a small laugh. ‘A whole