The Villa in Italy. Elizabeth Edmondson

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СКАЧАТЬ so hot,’ said Jessica. ‘Like a wind from the desert.’

      ‘Villa Dante or not,’ Delia said, ‘we’re going in. Or we’ll be flattened by this blasted tempest, and I hate to think what’ll happen if any more of it gets into the engine of your car. Stranded is what we’d be then.’

      She gave the gates an impatient shake, and let out a cry of triumph, carried away in the wind, as the chain slithered to the ground. A sudden gust tore the gates apart, driving them inwards to land with a crash against the stones set alongside the driveway.

      ‘Watch out,’ cried Jessica, as the gates began to swing back towards them with squealing ferocity.

      Delia flung herself against the left-hand one, and, hanging on to it, looked around for a stone to wedge it open.

      ‘There, on the grass,’ shouted Jessica, who had got back into the car and started to edge it forward.

      Delia kicked the stone into place, then forced the other gate back and held it as Jessica drove the car through.

      Jessica was gesturing at her to get into the car, but Delia first picked up the chain and waited for the moment when the gates clanged together to wrench it through and twist it round the bars.

      ‘It won’t hold,’ she yelled, as she got back into the car.

      ‘The gate’s the least of our worries,’ said Jessica. ‘I just hope there’s someone here to let us in.’

      They drove up to the house, not noticing anything about it, intent only on getting the car and themselves under shelter, out of the terrifying, sand-laden wind.

      ‘This is the back of the house,’ yelled Delia. ‘Look for somewhere to put the car.’

      ‘There,’ Jessica said. ‘A stable, or is it a garage?’

      ‘It doesn’t matter, it’s shelter.’

      The doors were banging to and fro in the wind and Delia struggled to hold them back while Jessica drove the car in.

      Delia leant against the stone wall, blinking the sand out of her eyes. ‘What a relief to be out of that ghastly hot wind,’ she said.

      ‘We can’t stay here,’ Jessica said. ‘How do we get inside the house?’

      In fact, Delia was perfectly happy to stay there, out of the wind, the engine switched off, every nerve in her body throbbing. Even a single step seemed beyond her, but Jessica was at her side, forcing her out once again into the maddening wind, so strong now that the sand stung her cheeks, and then, oh miracle, Jessica found a door, and opened it, and they were inside, out of the wind, and heat, and sand.

      Wherever they were, it was blessedly cool, and the air was breathable.

      Delia heard a crash and a muffled oath. ‘Are we in a kitchen, do you suppose?’ said Jessica, her voice seeming to Delia to come from a great distance. ‘There are shutters, but I shan’t open them, or everything will blow in from outside. Besides, there isn’t much light to let in. But I’ve found a sink, and I think I collided with a kitchen table. Can you see anything?’

      Delia blinked. ‘I’ve still got sand in my eyes.’ She began to cough, a deep racking sound. ‘I think the sand’s got into my lungs, too, blast it.’

      ‘Hold on.’

      The sound of running water, and then Jessica was beside her, wiping her face with a wet handkerchief. ‘Don’t you dare faint on me.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ said Delia untruthfully, her head spinning. ‘I never faint.’

      ‘Sit down.’ Jessica, miraculously, set a chair under Delia as her legs crumpled. ‘Put your head down between your knees. Go on. Blood to the head is what you need.’

      The dizziness receded. ‘I can’t think what came over me.’

      ‘It’s that bronchitis,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s pulled you right down, and this wind and the blowing sand, it hardly makes it easy for anyone to breathe. You could do with a glass of water to drink, but I wouldn’t drink anything out of the tap. Feeling better? Then let’s see if anyone’s at home.’

      No one was. They walked through shadowy rooms, accompanied by the sudden, distant roars of the wind. Shutters rattled; somewhere a door or window was banging.

      ‘Deserted,’ said Jessica.

      ‘Not for long,’ said Delia, running a finger over the surface of a marble-topped table and inspecting it by the meagre light filtering through the shutters.

      ‘Do you think it’s always windy like this?’

      ‘I think this is a sirocco,’ said Delia. ‘We did it at school, with Miss Pertinax, don’t you remember? She took us for geography, and was mad about the extremes of nature. Floods and tidal waves and hurricanes, and the wicked winds of Europe. The Föhn that drives you mad, and the mistral in the south of France, and the sirocco, a blinding southerly wind that blows up from the desert into Mediterranean Europe, bringing half the Sahara with it.’

      ‘How on earth do you remember all that?’

      ‘Winds are dramatic. You won’t remember it, because you never paid any attention in geography, and I used to do your homework for you.’

      ‘I did your maths,’ said Jessica. ‘Does this sirocco happen often?’

      ‘Quite rare, I think.’

      ‘Then why does it have to blow on the day we arrive?’

      ‘Fate,’ said Delia. ‘Angry gods.’

      ‘There is electricity, here are the light switches, but nothing happens when I press them.’

      ‘Switched off at the mains, or it could run on a generator.’

      ‘Now isn’t the time to investigate. There are bound to be oil lamps or candles somewhere. And if there’s been dusting done, perhaps there’s food in the house. And a wine cellar. Safer than water for drinking. You stay here; I’ll find a light.’

      Delia could make out little of her surroundings, although she could dimly see a pillar, and judging by the smoothness of the stone under her hand, the bench she was sitting on was marble.

      Jessica came back bearing a candle aloft, the small flame sending little shadows to and fro as it flickered in a draught. They were in a large marble-floored room, with fluted columns and enormous doors set in classical architraves.

      Delia sat up, sudden alarm rising in her. Faces were looking out at her, a girl peeping round a door, a woman in flowing robes strumming at a lyre—was she hallucinating?

      ‘Good heavens,’ said Jessica, equally startled. ‘What the dickens …?’

      Delia went over to take a closer look. ‘It’s all painting,’ she said. ‘The people, this door, the columns. Trompe l’oeil. It’s amazing!’

      ‘Thank God,’ said Jessica. ‘It gave me quite a fright, thinking the place was СКАЧАТЬ