look at her.
‘You shouldn’t talk to yourself. It looks daft.’
Above them, carved on the gateway, mingling with the arms of Henry VIII, the Tudor rose blossomed in stone.
‘Oh I wish,’ cried Freda, ‘we had a camera.’
She tripped forwards in her purple trousers and gazed entranced at the toy soldier in his red tunic and rippling busby, motionless
outside the guardhouse.
Salvatore spotted the Cortina with the envelope trapped on its windscreen at mid-day. There was a consultation as to what
the arrow meant. Salvatore and his threepassengers thought it peculiar that Rossi and the Englishwomen had entered the fortress, but the fifth occupant of the mini,
not being Italian, said he understood. He borrowed a pencil from a traffic warden and wrote in English: ‘We have gone that
way too,’ and signed it ‘Patrick’.
Murmuring, the four workmen followed him up the hill and stood bewildered on the parade ground. Set at the end of the courtyard
was a kiosk, and there was a thin stream of visitors buying tickets. On a pole above the State Apartments, a yellow flag,
stretched stiff as a board, pasted itself to the sky. The soberly dressed men, searching for the lost remnants of their party,
wandered beneath arches and descended steps. The wind rose in fury and blew them, jackets flapping, along a stone terrace
above a garden. Wearily they climbed back to the parade ground and, urged on by Patrick, joined the queue at the kiosk and
paid 15p each to the attendant. Entering the doorway of a chapel, they removed their hats and shuffled past the alabaster
font. They stared at the carved choir-stalls and the arched roof hung with flags, embroidered with strange beasts and symbols,
heavy with tassels of gold. There were no candles burning, no crucifix, no saints bleeding and bedecked with jewels in the
shadowy niches of the walls.
Bending their heads, they watched furtively the feet of Patrick as he trod the tiled floor.
Freda had enquired and been told that the dungeons had all been sealed off.
‘Off?’ she repeated, outraged. ‘Why?’
Rossi led her away, agreeing with her that it was preposterous.
‘These things,’ he said, ‘how do we know why? What is the purpose?’
And he spread his hands and looked at her with such intensity of feeling that she was quite impressed by him.
He dreaded lest she fight physically with the custodian of the castle and have them ejected. Somewhere, beyond the main portion
of the town, stood the family home of Mr Paganotti, set in gardens fragrant with falling leaves and dying roses. From every
parapet Rossi leaned and searched the landscape for some sign of Mr Paganotti’s existence. Once he had been promised he would
be taken to the mansion – he had come to work in his best suit – but something had occurred to postpone his visit. He had
waited in the outer office for Mr Paganotti to appear, until the secretary had come out shrugging her arms in her modish coat,
and told him that Mr Paganotti had already gone. He did not allow himself to think that Mr Paganotti had forgotten – that
was not possible. It was simply that he had so many responsibilities, so many cares – he had been summoned away with no time
to explain. He had rehearsed how he would behave the following day when Mr Paganotti sought him out and apologised. He would
raise his hand like a drawbridge and tell him no explanation was needed. Between men of business, excuses were unnecessary.
He waited a long time at his desk, his hand flat against his breast, but even on the Friday when he went to receive his wages
Mr Paganotti said nothing.
Freda was irritated when Vittorio corrected every itemof information she gave him about the history of the castle. She understood, but she hated him for it. He was like her in
temperament, conscious that he was mortal and determined to have the last word. She fell silent and was genuinely upset that
the State Apartments were
‘You shouldn’t talk to yourself. It looks daft.’
Above them, carved on the gateway, mingling with the arms of Henry VIII, the Tudor rose blossomed in stone.
‘Oh I wish,’ cried Freda, ‘we had a camera.’
She tripped forwards in her purple trousers and gazed entranced at the toy soldier in his red tunic and rippling busby, motionless
outside the guardhouse.
Salvatore spotted the Cortina with the envelope trapped on its windscreen at mid-day. There was a consultation as to what
the arrow meant. Salvatore and his threepassengers thought it peculiar that Rossi and the Englishwomen had entered the fortress, but the fifth occupant of the mini,
not being Italian, said he understood. He borrowed a pencil from a traffic warden and wrote in English: ‘We have gone that
way too,’ and signed it ‘Patrick’.
Murmuring, the four workmen followed him up the hill and stood bewildered on the parade ground. Set at the end of the courtyard
was a kiosk, and there was a thin stream of visitors buying tickets. On a pole above the State Apartments, a yellow flag,
stretched stiff as a board, pasted itself to the sky. The soberly dressed men, searching for the lost remnants of their party,
wandered beneath arches and descended steps. The wind rose in fury and blew them, jackets flapping, along a stone terrace
above a garden. Wearily they climbed back to the parade ground and, urged on by Patrick, joined the queue at the kiosk and
paid 15p each to the attendant. Entering the doorway of a chapel, they removed their hats and shuffled past the alabaster
font. They stared at the carved choir-stalls and the arched roof hung with flags, embroidered with strange beasts and symbols,
heavy with tassels of gold. There were no candles burning, no crucifix, no saints bleeding and bedecked with jewels in the
shadowy niches of the walls.
Bending their heads, they watched furtively the feet of Patrick as he trod the tiled floor.
Freda had enquired and been told that the dungeons had all been sealed off.
‘Off?’ she repeated, outraged. ‘Why?’
Rossi led her away, agreeing with her that it was preposterous.
‘These things,’ he said, ‘how do we know why? What is the purpose?’
And he spread his hands and looked at her with such intensity of feeling that she was quite impressed by him.
He dreaded lest she fight physically with the custodian of the castle and have them ejected. Somewhere, beyond the main portion
of the town, stood the family home of Mr Paganotti, set in gardens fragrant with falling leaves and dying roses. From every
parapet Rossi leaned and searched the landscape for some sign of Mr Paganotti’s existence. Once he had been promised he would
be taken to the mansion – he had come to work in his best suit – but something had occurred to postpone his visit. He had
waited in the outer office for Mr Paganotti to appear, until the secretary had come out shrugging her arms in her modish coat,
and told him that Mr Paganotti had already gone. He did not allow himself to think that Mr Paganotti had forgotten – that
was not possible. It was simply that he had so many responsibilities, so many cares – he had been summoned away with no time
to explain. He had rehearsed how he would behave the following day when Mr Paganotti sought him out and apologised. He would
raise his hand like a drawbridge and tell him no explanation was needed. Between men of business, excuses were unnecessary.
He waited a long time at his desk, his hand flat against his breast, but even on the Friday when he went to receive his wages
Mr Paganotti said nothing.
Freda was irritated when Vittorio corrected every itemof information she gave him about the history of the castle. She understood, but she hated him for it. He was like her in
temperament, conscious that he was mortal and determined to have the last word. She fell silent and was genuinely upset that
the State Apartments were
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