SEETHEAMALFICOAST

ByFrancesM.Thompson

SecondEdition:PublishedSeptember2013

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CopyrightFrancesM.Thompson

Toplantagardenistobelieveintomorrow.

AudreyHepburn

SEETHEAMALFICOAST

1.Our plane leaves in ive hours and he hasnt packed yet.Instead,hesitsinhisshedandtinkerswithhistoys.Theyrenottoys.Theyremodels.Worksofbloodyart!Webookedtheticketsafewmonthsago.Cheaplightsfromonewebsite,a lastminutehoteldeal fromanother.Martinclicked the mouse taking us from one page to the next. Ireadoutourcreditcarddetails.Itallhappenedsoquickly.Itsonlybloodymoney.Youcantspendmoneywhenyouredead.The last time we went abroad was ifteen years ago. TendaysinDisneyWorld,oneinalfamilyholiday.Stevenwasspottyandgrumpy,boredbyusall.Staciemadeupforitbyinsisting that I run a brush through her hair one hundredtimes every night.Martinwas relentless in remindingmethatthiswashisveryideaofhelleverytimewestoodinthequeueforaride.Andyettherewasamomentofmagic.On our last hot evening in Florida, as we four huggedMickeyMouse, a photographer captured a happymomentthat didn't exist. I always smile when I move that photoframetothesidetodustthemantelpiece.

This time it will be just the two of us; the children don'tevenknow.Youmustnt tell them. Itsourbloodyholidaynot theirs, Iwasinstructed.Promise?Inodded.IdidntsayyesandIdidntsayno.Whattimeisourlight?Hewalksthroughthepatiodoors,heading on a familiar path to the kitchen sink. Theressawdust on his cheek and he smells of glue. Its a smell Ibothloveandhate.Iplaceahotcupofteaintohishandandtellhimweneedtoleaveinjustundertwohours.Bloody hell! I havent packed yet! I nod and follow himupstairs.

2.The taxi is stuck in trafic. Martin idgets beside me, hisbulkofabellyknockingintome,hiskneespokingintothebackof thedrivers seat,who seemsoblivious.Hes a tallIndianmanwithbrightwhiteteethandascarletredturbanthat almost touches the roof of the car. Aside from therollingconsonants,whichgiveawayhisheritage,hehasathickYorkshireaccent,thickerthanMartins.It'snotusuallythisbusyatthistimeofday,hedirectsanapologeticsmilebackatusintherearviewmirror.Cantyouputyourtraficalertson?Findouthowlongthisisgoingtotake?Martinasks.HewantedtodrivebutIputmy small foot down.Ourholidaywouldbegin as soon asthefrontdoorwaslocked.Icheckeverythingagain:ourpassports,newandunused;e-tickets for the plane, printed on the paper I boughtespecially; a copy of an email from the hotel with myforeignlookingemailaddresssittingatthetopofthepage;asmall bundle of crisp Euros ready to go on their ownjourney.EverythingissafelytuckedintothewhiteenvelopethatarrivedonourdoormatcarryingaletterfromMartinsconsultant.I iledtheletterawayafterithadbeenreadbuttheenvelopewasstilluseful.Itevenresealsquitewell.The trafic alerts are on, my friend, the taxi driver isexplaining. They come on automatically when there's atrafic report. Even when the radio's switched off. Very

clever. Iknowwhatother taxidriversare like.Alwaysgotthe radio on, playing all that loud, terrible music. But noonewantstolistentothatrubbish.Imean,Illputtheradioon,ifImasked,if itswhatthecustomerwants.Buttotellyou the truth, its not often that Im asked. I think peopleprefer silence these days.Me, I prefer the silence too.Wedont get much of it in this busy world, do we? He issmilingagain,hiseyebrowsraised.SoIkeeptheradiooffbut my alerts stay on. They come through every ifteenminutesorso. I thinkwemusthave justmissed the latesttrafficreport.Whattimeisitnow?Well,forsomeonewholikesthesilence,hedoesntbloodyshut up!Martinwhispers intomy ear, nudgingme again,thistimewithapushofaffection.Ilookatmyhusbandof31yearsanddespitethetraficandhis having it in for this pleasant taxi driver, I can tell thathes enjoying himself. I smile back. It feels like thebeginningofaholiday.

3.We stand in the queue for security in front of a youngfamily. Their youngest daughter reminds me of Zara, ourthree-year-old granddaughter. I watch her talk to herselfwhiletuckingherblondecurlsbehindherearusingthefullpalmofherhand.Ismileatthelittlegirlwhilepreparingmyselffortheworst.Ifearthattheflightwillbetwohoursandforty-fiveminutesofmoansandgroans.WevenotbeenonaplaneforifteenyearsandI'veheardthattheseatshavegotsmaller.Iknowforcertainthatwevegrownbigger.Martinespecially.HowIwishIddonesomethingaboutthat.Ishouldhavestoppedmaking dessert, started buying semi-skimmed milk, cutsugaroutofhistea.IshouldhavemadehimcomewithmewhenIwalkednext-doorsdogsafterMavishadherfall.Butthey tellme that itmaystillhavehappened, thatmaybe itwasalwaysgoingtohappen.Did you putmymp3player in here?Martin is shuflingaround the contents of his rucksack looking for the smalldeviceStacieandKeithgavehimlastChristmas.Ittookhimamonthtostartusingit.ByMarchhedidnthateitandnowinlateJulyhecantbeartobeseparatedfromit.Podcasts.Bloodybrilliantthings.Youcanindapodcastonanything. Anything you want. Music, history, news. Andtheyre all free. Well, most of them. Bloody good things,podcasts.

Inodconirmation that it's in thereandashedigsdeep toind it, I grabanother lookat the little girlbehindme. Shesmilesback.SheisjustlikeZara.

4.Bloody,bloody,bloodyhell!TheseatsaresmallerthanIfeared.Martin has squeezed himself into one by the aisle, intowhichheextendshis left leg.He tutsevery timehehas totuckitbackinasthestaffpushtrolleyspast,thedrawersofminiature-sizeddrinksmakingbrisktinklingsounds.So if we land at six oclock local time, and the hoteltransfertakestwenty-iveminutes,wellarrivejustintimefordinner.Martinwindshiswatchforward.IthinkIfancypizza.What do you reckon? Think well be able to ind anicepizzaplaceintownsomewhere?Iglanceathimandseeagrin.Hesmakingajoke.Youreright,love.TheresagoodbloodychancewellindpizzainNaples!Hisbig,tautbellyrisesinasmalllaugh.Naples, Martin's Naples. Hes read the guidebook moretimes than I can count, highlighting new sections andfoldingovercorners.HebuystravelmagazinesjustbecauseNaplesismentionedinpassing.HewatchesDVDsabouttheRomans, Gothic architecture and the SecondWorldWarsdestructionof the city.Hes studied this part of theworldfor decades after he learnt that a longhaired ArgentineancalledMaradona played for the city's football club.While

the Argentinean and his hand of God soon fell out ofMartin's favour, the city stuck. Pompeii, Vesuvius, Capri,theCamorramaia,pizzaandtheAmaliCoastall followedandilledspaceinMartin'shead;themorehefoundoutthemorehewasdrawntothiscorneroftheworld.Thisishisdreamholidayinthemost literalsense.Hedreamsof itatnighthiseyelidstwitchingattheescapeandexcitementitbrings. And on his computer he feeds the daydreams too,trawling the Internet for things he mustnt miss andknowledge he can impart onme at dinnertime. The otherweek as I was collecting mugs from his shed, I found anItalian for Beginners CD hed borrowed from the librarynexttoanItalianrecipebookopenedonapagewiththetitle"CampaniaCuisine".Itrytorecallwhatheseatentoday.Iwonderifhisappetitewillholdoutforthatpizza.Withhisheadphonesin,hefallsasleep.Ileandowntoopenmy handbag, which is wedged under the seat in front. Icheck the white envelope is there with everything stillinside.

5.The heat smacks us in the face as we descend from theplaneonrickety,plasticsteps.InfrontofmeMartinraiseshis face to the sun as though hes never seen it before, orperhaps,asthoughhe'llneverseeitagain.Ipokehiminthebacktokeephimmoving.A man stands at the bottom, his chin lifted up and awayfromus. Isensethathethinkshe's taller thanhereally is.Hes wearing tailored black trousers and a short-sleevedwhiteshirtoverwhichaluorescentyellowvestlapsopenin a warm breeze. The gold rims of his oversized aviatorsunglasses sparkle in the sun. Every now and again heraises his left arm and slowly points to the terminalbuildingwithaslim,tannedindexinger.Ihaveneverseensomebodysostylishdoingsuchanunglamorousjob.Bloodyposer,Martinsniffs.

6.Awomanwithbigbrowneyesgreetsuswitha fakesmileandaperfectmanicure.Sheisutterlybeautiful.InLeedsshewould be a ilm star. Martinmelts in her presence, over-pronouncinghiswordsandgrinningateveryopportunity.Iindulgehim,knowingitwillperkhimupfortherestoftheday.HaveyoueverbeentoEngland?Iwouldntbother,ifIwereyou.Bloodycoldmostofthetime,eveninsummer.Thoughthis feels pretty bloody hot tome. Is it always like this?Thebackofhishandwipeshisbrow.Seeing the sun relect off his balding head, Iwonder ifwepackedenoughsunscreen.Itsanothersillythought.Aswe leave the terminal, I hold back soMartin canwalksidebysidewiththeilmstar.Ipretendnottonoticewhenhe struggles to lift our suitcases into the boot of theminibus.

7.Naples roads are terrifying. There is no order on themotorwaysotherthanacommontendencybycarstodrivewith thewhite lines of the roaddirectly underneath them.Once on older, narrower streets our pace slows to acrowded crawl. It's impossible to determine how manylanesof trafic the road is supposed tohaveorhowmanypeoplewould like it tohave. I hearmorehorns than I seevehiclesandthoughitisdeafening,itisalsoalittleexciting.Iknow it'snot thecase,but it feelsas though thenoise isannouncingourarrival,asthoughNaplesiswelcomingus.Aswesitintrafic,oncegrandbuildingsshadeusfromthesun. I look up and see walls crumbling, shutters missingpanelsandsmallbalconiesweigheddownwithlowerpots,chairs,bikesandevenwashingmachines.Mopedscreepuponeithersideofus,oneaftertheother.Theyarelikeants,comingout of nowhere andunquestioningly following theone in front of them, trusting that they can and must gowherehebeforehimgoes.Down alleyways I see rows of washing stretching across,high in the air. I always thought it looked romantic andneighbourly in ilms, but in reality, it's a little sad to seepeoples clothes drying in exhaust fumes on a sharedwashing line.Yetthatdoesntmakeitany lessofatreattosee.On the ground there is dirt. Rubbish bags are stacked onstreet corners and beside shop doors. I rememberMartin

telling me about the rubbish problem Naples had a fewyearsago.Heshowedmesomefrighteningphotosofhugemounds of rubbish lining the pavements and roads, so IknowwhatImseeingisanimprovementonthis.Peoplesitoutsidetheirhomesonchairs;someperchaloneandstare sternlyahead,others lean into small groupsandtalkintently.Mostaremenandallseemold,withthelinesoflifestoriescarvedintotheirfaces.Allappearundisturbedbythenoise,thetrafficandthebagsofrubbishthatliecloseby.Ilookupandspotanelderlywomanwithunrulywhitehairstaring out of a window, her face peering over a pot ofpurple orchids. Three young men wearing suits and toomuch hair gel walk by my window. They talk over eachother, with their hands and shoulders as much as theirmouths.Astheminibusinallybeginstomoveforwardwepassapolicemansittingonamotorbikeon thepavement.Hesmokesacigaretteandwatchesthechaosunfoldaroundhim.I count seven stray dogs on our journey so far, one withonlythreelegs.Martin suddenly covers my hand with his, squeezing myknucklestogether.Itsbloodybrilliant,isntit?

8.Ourhotel isbasicbutcomfortable.Ishouldhaveknownitwouldnt be perfect, but for the money we spent I wouldhave liked something more; an extra pillow, a quieter airconditioningunit,drinkingglassesinsteadofplasticcups.WehaveabalconythatoverlooksthevastandindustriousportofNaples.Itsimpressive,eventome.Inthefarcorneris a collection of grey military ships, which appear veryserious comparedwith the giganticwhite cruise liner thatstretches out along the other end. A little way out to seathereareanumberoftankerssendingcloudsofsmokeintothesky.ItdoesnttakeMartinlongtomoveachairoutsidesohecansitandwatchoverthecity.Makeusacupoftea,love.TheunfamiliartasteoftheUHTteamilkspoilstheirstsipformebutMartindoesntseemtonotice.IsitbesidehimasheslurpshisteaandblinksatNaples.Heisfinallyhere.

9.Bestpizza I everbloody tasted!Martinwipeshismouthwith a paper napkin and surveys his empty plate. I amshockedbuthappy.Ihavethreeslicesleftandpasstwotohim.Hegrinsatmechildishly. I tell himhe looks like Stevenwhenhe smileslikethat.Well,wheredoyouthinkhegothisgoodlooksfrom?You?Ha!We laugh together. The restaurant is full; a mix of pale,politetouristsanddark-haired,livelyItalians.But Stacie is like you, of course. Those blue eyes. Zarasgotthemtoo.Bloodyhell,shesgoingtobeahandfulwhenshegrowsup.JustlikeStaciewas.Itsalways thoughtsof the future thatpullatmehardest. IhopethatMartindoesntnotice.HewouldbedisappointedifIcriedontothelastsliceofmypizza.Iquicklypickitup,letitcreasedownthemiddleandnibbleatthepointofthetriangle. Martin insisted that we eat with our ingersbecause thatswhat Italiansdo. I thinkaboutwhathe saidaswesatinfrontofhiscomputerlookingatflights.Imsorry,butIjustdontwantthemknowing.Welltellthemwereoff toDorset for theweekagain.We'llpop thecar in

thegarageandtheywontevennoticewevegone.Ifwesaywe'regoingabroad, to Italy, toNaples, theydwonderwhy.They know its not like us and then thered be all thequestions. Im sorry, love,but its for thebest.Theymaybelike chalk and cheese in some ways, but theyre both asbloodynoseyaseachother.Martin reaches for my hand over the table, something hehasntdoneinyears.Maybeweshouldhavegoneawaymore,youandme.Seenmoreoftheworld,hesays.Maybewe should have, butwewere never the type to goabroad, not once the kids were grown. After Martin'sredundancy there was a constant worry for money. Andwhere would we go? Of course, it should have beenobvious.NapleswaswhatMartin always talkedaboutbuthe never actually suggested going there. I thought himhappyenoughtokeepitasahobby,apipedream.WhydidIneverthinktomakemyhusbandsdreamscometrue?And now Ive started to think aboutmy own dreams. Ivealwayswanted to see theNiagara Falls, theGrandCanyonand theEiffelTower all lit up at night. I remember sayingoncehowlovelyitwouldbetoseeNewYorkatChristmas,butMartinwasn'tkeen.Bigexpensiveholidayswerethingswe did with the kids. Now it was just the two of us,squeezing into a caravan in Dorset or spending a night ortwoupontheDaleskeptushappy.

IstareatourlinkedhandsandthinkaboutNewYork.Icanalways go with Stacie. Maybe Zara too, when she's oldenough.

10.I lineMartinsmedicationonhisbedsidetableandplaceaplastic glass ofwater behind them. The toilet lushes andMartincoughs.Hiscoughwillnevergetbetter.Iknowthatnow but it doesnt stop it shakingmy soul every time hewretches.Itusedtotakehimivesipstoswallowallthepills.Nowhecandothemallintwogulps.Bloodyhell,hesitsdownon thebed. In thedim lightofhisbedside lampIseehimrubhisstomach, thesourceofallourills.ItisatnightthatInoticehowsickhereallyis.Hestrugglestostayawakeafter9oclock.Themoreheneeds to sleep,theharderitisformetoenjoythecomfortofslumber.Buthecanhavemysleep.Ifithadbeeninhiskidneys,hecouldhavehadoneofminetoo.Iwouldgivehimanything.Sixmonths.Sixbloodymonths.Thosewords.Theywere thebeginningofNaples,but theywerealsothebeginningoftheend.

11.Thesunburnsandblistersaboveus.HereinthemiddleofPompeii,wearefullyexposedtoitsstrength.IhaveappliedFactor 50 onto Martins freckled skin and he isdownplaying how hot he is. He doesnt want anything toruin today,notevenhisowndiscomfort.But I cansee thecirclesofsweatswellacrosshisshirtandIwatchhischestriseand fallmore than it shouldwhenwestandstill. Lastnighthevomitedthreetimes.Illbeine.Stopfussing.Wevecomeallthisbloodyway.Imnotgoingtowastethedaystayinginabloodyhotelroom.IwanttoseePompeii!It feelsas thoughMartinhasalreadybeenhere.Hemovesaround the ruins as though he knows exactly what liesahead.He turnswith conidence in his chosen direction. Ifollow him, climbing down into a crater that he explainswas once an amphitheatre and we walk along thefoundations of a Roman temple where leftover stubs ofpillars line itsentrance.Witheverystep Idevelopabetterunderstandingofboththesizeofthecitythatusedtoexistandthemagnitudeofthevolcanothatdestroyedit.Thisway,love,hesays.Martin leads me on to a collection of partially builtbuildings gathered around the remnants of a courtyard. Itdoesnt take long to_ envisagewhat this placewas like; aclusterofhouses,perhapssharedbyfriendsandfamily.Its

notdissimilarfromourownneighbourhood.Lookatthis,love.Insidethebrokenwallsofahouse,Martinpointstoanareafencedoffwith transparentplasticpanels.Behind them lieraised, grey shapes of various sizes. It takes a couple ofseconds but I eventually make out the ashen mould of amotherandchildcrouchingonthefloor,themotherholdingher child under her in pointless protection. It happenedthousandsofyearsagoandyetIcanseethembothandtheirfear vividly. I turn away andwalk to the other side of theroom,gratefulthatIvemasteredtheartofcryingsilently.When I look back IwatchMartin absorbing the stories oftheashpeoplewholieathisfeet.Hislipsarepoutedintoasombrestare.Hisnosetwitchesandafewdropletsofsweattrickle down the side of his face, losing their waysomewhere near his ear. I wonder how he feels to be soclosetodeath.I still remember theMartin Imarried. The it, youngmanwith the slightly upturned nose, peach freckles and wildthick hair neither of us could control. I thought hewouldlook young forever. But now he looks old, all belly andslopingshoulders.The drugswill help reduce the swelling, the pain and thesymptoms. They may even buy him more time, if heresponds well, but the bottom line doesnt change. Itsinoperable and its not disappearing. Theres no role for

radiotherapy or chemotherapy to play. It spread from hisstomach to his liver before wed had the chance to evendiscuss them. A Gastrointestinal Sarcoma Tumour, a rarecancerousmassthesizeofanorange, is ixedtothe liningof Martins stomach feeding off him, maturing, spreading,killing.Idontevenlikebloodyoranges.Ofcourse,Iaskedhim,beggedhim,totellthechildren.Whatsthebloodypoint?Idontwantallthefussingandtheworrying.Youllbeenoughbloodytroubleasitis.Wethoughtwecouldbeatitalone,justthetwoofus.Weveseen off other threats before, beaten away the things thattried to shake our smallholding of this world, like whenStaciegothitbyacartwodaysafterher ifthbirthdayandbrokeherfemurinfourplaces.ShewalkswithaslightlimpthatremindsmehowluckyIamthatsheisalive.AndwhenMartingotmaderedundantsevenyearsago,Ithoughtwedhavetosellthehouse,spendoursavingsonsurvivinguntilwecouldclaimastatepension.Butafteraweekofmopingabout the house, me nagging at him and worryingmyselfsick,hetookhimselfofftoeveningclassestolearnhowtobuild a website. Somehow he turned that website into abusiness,sellingmodelplanesandhelicopterstoothermenlike him who spend too much time in sheds. In thebeginning, I doubtedhimand in the end, I shouldnt have.His business meant I could retire on the day I alwaysplannedto.

Yeoflittlefaith.ItoldyouIknewwhatIwasdoing.Ialwaysbloodydo.ThatswhyIagreednottotellthechildren.Theydidntneedtoknowifeverythingwasgoingtobeokay.IgathermytearsandmythoughtsandIwalkuptoMartinsside. Imakesurethe lengthofmyarmtouchesthesideofhis. I shudder seeing the mother and child made of ashagain.At least they were together, eh? he says, his knucklesbrushingagainstmine.

12.ThefollowingdaywehireacartoseetheAmaliCoast.TheFilmStarorganises it, smiling lirtatiouslyatMartinwhenshequestions thedate of birth onhis driving license. Ivenoticedthatshenolongerlooksatmewhenshetalkstousand when I tell Martin this he smiles smugly. I try topersuade Martin against driving there are bus tours wecoulddo,atrainwecancatch-Iworryaboutthetraficandthe chaos on the roads. But I know that this is the veryreasonhewantstodrive.Hewantstobepartofit.Ifyoucantbloodybeatem,joinem!OurhirecarissmallerandlighterthanMartinisusedtoWejolt along in the disorderly queues and speed away whentrafic allows. Martin grins with every gear change.Flipping heck, love! Did you feel that? Its got bite thisone!Once away from Naples, the trafic dilutes and begins tolow. On our right hand side we are being hugged by theMediterranean, which looks up at us as we roll along thetopsof sheerbrownandgreycliffs.There is something inthat never-ending blue of the sea, interrupted only by themysteriousIsleofCaprithatseemstoswimclosertousaswemove forward. Ivenever seenablue like it.Upahead,along the side of the zigzagging land, there are spots ofcolourthatarevillages,townsandlonegrandhouses.Bloody hell! Look at that!His head twists as he tries to

takeinasmuchoftheviewashecan.Itaphiskneeandhismovementssoberupalittle.Theroadalongthecliff 'sedgeisasterrifyingasitisbeautiful.We drive in silence for many minutes, the way we havedoneonmany journeys over the years, butweboth enjoyhow different this one is. Eventually Martin turns off theroad and I notice that he is following signs to Sorrento, atownweagreedtostopinatsomepointintheday.Before he gets out of the parked car, I spray his exposedskinwiththethickwhitesunscreenthatneverquiterubsincompletely. With a guidebook gripped in his hand, I letMartinleadusdownalonglineoflat,greystepssquashedbetweenthetallwallsoftownhouses,alreadyknowinghesgoingtotakeusdowntothewaterthatlookedsobluefromupabove.As thestreetopensup intoasmall courtyardoftrees,Martinstops.HeislookingforsomethingandIdontknow what it is. We ind it in the form of a lemon treestandinginthemiddleofthesquare.There you go, love. One of the Amali Coast's oldest andmost famous exports.Martin takes out the camerawevehardly used until this week and he attempts a few shots,chewingtheinsideofhislipandholdinghisbreath.Istanda short distance behind him absorbing the warmth of thesunbeforeitbecomestoomuch.IremindmyselftoreviewthephotoslaterandcommentontheonesIlike.Our path eventually takes us down to busier streets andinallyawaterfrontpromenade.Wesee thesea lappingup

under an elegant marina that is lined with gleamingspeedboatsandluxuryyachts.Yachts.Wasteofbloodymoney,ifyouaskme.Thinkofallthethingsyoucouldbuywiththesameamountofmoney.Youcouldhaveayearoffwork fora start.Martin shakeshisheadandrestshishandsonhiships,forcinghisdomedbelly out. I try to remember if he took his pills thismorning.Wewalkaway fromtheyachtsandcometoasceneat thefurthest, oldest side of the marina that puts us at ease.Fishermen of all ages are ofloading the catch of the dayfrom their modest ishing boats, which boast little morethan laking paint and frayed ropes. I expect to beoverwhelmedbythesmellofish,buttheairsmellsclean,freshandsunkissed;nothingliketheishcounterIavoidinthe supermarket. I watch the men work together and Isuspectmanyofthemarerelated;fathers,sons,unclesandcousins.Ithinkaboutmyownfamily.IwonderifStevensworking toomuch, ifStaciehas inishedpaintingher frontroomandhowZaraisgettingonatplaygroup.Martinbegins toretraceoursteps to thecar, itching togetbackbehindthesteeringwheel.Affectedbythefreshairandthoughtsofmyfamily,Idon'tfeelreadytomoveonyet,soIpersuadehimtostopandhaveacoffeeirst.MartinsbeentoldnottodrinktoomuchcaffeineandonlyaquickliftofhiseyebrowreferstothisasIordertwoespressos.Tomysurprise,Martindoesntgrab theopportunity to indulge inthis contrabandandhe sips it half-heartedly. I stare at thebiscotti that liesneglectedonhissaucer; it remindsmeof

thecoldscrambledeggshekeptshiftingaroundhisplateatbreakfast. Although it brings him no pain his loss ofappetite has been one of the hardest symptoms to watchhimsuffer.Climbing back up the hill is a struggle. Martin huffs andpuffs himself up one slow, dificult step at a time and Imove aheadof him too easily. Tobridge the gap I stop towaitbesidea low-walledgarden that I cangaze into. Its aneatly kept collection of vegetable plots with tomatoesripening in one corner and clumps of herbs prospering inanother.Thewallofthehousethatbacksontothespaceiscovered inaclimbingplant that isdottedwithbrightpinklowers. Ive never seen a plant like this before, but Isuddenlyanddesperatelywantoneinourgarden,climbingupandcoveringthegardenfence.Ithinkoftheunexpectedcolouritwouldbringtosummer.Nobodyhastreeslikethatonourroad.Martin approaches and I take the camera from him as heleansforward,panting.IfumblemywaythroughturningitonandItakeaphotoofthepinklowers. IwillaskGusatthegardencentrewhatitisandwhetheritwouldsurviveaYorkshirewinter.Wecontinue towalksteadilyon,ametreor soapartuntilwereachanothertownsquarethatwemustcrosstogettoour car. As we approach the far corner we see threemensitting on a bench wearing polished shoes and short-sleevedshirts,eachoneadifferentshadeofblue.Theysitin front of a small corner store that sells vegetables andpostcards.Somethingtellsmethemenhavebeenthere for

manyyears and Iwonderwhere theirwives are andwhattheyredoing.ItellMartinImgoingintheshoptobuypostcards.Whothebloodyhellareyougoingtobuypostcardsfor?Ofcourse. Ihavenoonetosendpostcardsto. Intheharshand hot light of the midday sun our secret holiday is nolonger exciting. Its frustrating, its sad and it's silly. I amangry that I cant send a single postcard home. In shortclippedwords I explain tomyhusband that Iwill buy thepostcards for myself. They will be souvenirs for me tokeep,formetoremember.Until someone bloody inds them and starts askingquestions,Martinmutters. How the bloody hell are yougoingtoexplainitthen,eh?Before I realise my mouth is moving I shout horrible,spitefulwordsatmyhusbandthat I instantlywish Icoulderase from the air. But at the same time I want him toanswerme.Because,howishegoingtoexplaintohischildrenthathesdying?

13.Fortyminutes laterand theair conditionerhascooledouroverheated bodies and hot heads. I dont knowwhere wearegoingorwhatMartinsplanisbutheseemstohaveone.Weve not spoken since I bought the postcards. They arenowtuckedinsidethewhiteenvelope,which isstartingtoloseitsseal.We are back up on those impossible roads, winding ourway aroundmore dramatic scenery. Capri now sits in thecornerofourrearwindow.Imhungry,Martinsays.Inodinagreement.Listen, love.Weve talked about this and this is how itsgoing to be. Theres nothing to be gained from themknowing,Martin taps thesteeringwheelwith thepalmofhishand.Hisheadturnstomebuthiseyesdonot,theystayixed on the road ahead. So,were not going to tell them.Imjustgoingtogo,

14.Wearelost.Weexpectanothertownorvillagetocrossourpathbutitdoesntsoweturnofffollowingsignsforahotelwhosenamewecantpronounce,assumingtheymusthavearestaurant.Therearetwoothercarsparkedonthegraveloutsideagrand three-storeymansionhousepainted in thepurestwhite.Wewalkthroughitsdoubledoorentrance.Inside, the hotel looks like it has gone into hibernation.There are dustsheets covering sofas, tables, chairs and asmall reception desk. I look up and around. Fat childlikecherubssittingoncloudsarepaintedonthetallceiling.Hello? Martins voice booms against the empty walls.Anyonehome?There follows the banging of doors, the shifting of thingsandtheechoesofhushedwords.Ipanicthatwevebrokenin,orworse,interruptedabreak-in.Thefaceofayoungmanappearsfromadooratthebackofthe room and upon seeing us he smiles and enters. Heswearing ruby red jeans and a purple polo shirt. I imaginethisoutitwalkingdownourlocalhighstreetandthelooksitwouldget.HebeginstalkinginItalian,butquicklystopswhenherealiseswearentresponding,merelystandingandwatching,uninformed.Can I help you? Are you lost? His accent creates vowel

soundswheretherearenone.No.Worse.Werehungry!Martin jokeswithhim. But itlookslikeyoureclosed?Yes. The hotel is closed.My father, he died recently.Wecannot open the hotel this year. My mother is very sick,withsadness.Abrokenheart.Hishandsrestonhischestashewalkstowardsus.Martin speaks softly. Im very sorry to hear that. Weresorryforyourloss.Wellleaveyouinpeace.No!Themanblinksmany times, riddinghis eyesof thesadnessthatwastherejustamomentago.Heinvitesustosit, stayandeatsomething.He throwsoff thedustsheetsfromanearbytableandinsistshismotherwillprepareuslunch. She loves to cook. She will enjoy it. It will besomethingsimple,butIpromiseitwillbedelicious.And it is. Its the most delicious food Ive tasted in thelongest time; a big bowl of spaghetti cloaked in tomatosaucewitha sprigofbasilperchedon top. Its thekindofunfussy food you serve to children, but it would never,couldnevertastelikethis.Thereisthewarmthofthesuninthesauce,hiddenintomatoesthatIimaginegrewwatchingover the Amali Coast. How strange that the sun can givehumans cancer, but it gifts tomatoes such sweetness. Iacceptasecondservinghungrily.Paolo,ourhost,servesusredwinefromaglasscarafeand

it lowsdownourthroatsquickly,evenMartins.Welearnthatthehotelwasafamilybusinessthatheandhisbrotherdidnt want to join. Hed got himself a job in the city,workingforashippingmerchant,andhadnodesiretoworkifteen-hourdays forhalf themoney.Whenhis fatherdiediveweeks ago he asked his boss for threemonths off sotheycouldtidyupthehoteltotryandsellitbeforetheendofthehighseason.Butyouknow,Iamstartingtolikethisplace.MaybeIwillnotsell,Paolosayswithasoftglintinhiseyeashelooksupatacherub.Youcantarguewithyoursurroundings.ItsthebestoficeIve seen in a while. Bloody beautiful! Martin says. Hewipeshismouthwithbothhands.Iwanttophotographhisemptyplate.ImnotsurePaolounderstandsmyhusbands idioms,so Itell him in simpler terms that we think the Amali Coastwouldbeawonderfulplacetowork.Youreright.Youknowtheyhaveasaying in Italy,Paolocontinues, standing close and holding on to the back ofMartinschair.Come,seetheAmalfiCoastandthendie.He looks atus solemnly.Weareboth silent. I stare at thetomatosaucedryingonmyplate.Its because it is so beautiful, theres nothing else to livefor.Paoloismovedtoexplainwithasmallshrug.

Hesaysitsoplainly,asifitsthetruestsayingintheworld.

15.Thetraficbeginstobuilduponthemotorwayasweheadback. I fear its a sign that Naples will be just as hot andchaoticaswhenweleft.Martinembracesthisandusesthecarhornfreelywhenothersaroundusdothesame.Ifyoucantbeatem,hesnorts.Outthebloodyway,youforeignlot!Fed up with the noise and a little parched by the wine, Iimpatientlyunfoldamapofthecity.Iquicklydeviseanewroute.Ifweturnoffthemotorwayafewjunctionsearlierwecancrossthecitythroughthesuburbsandindustrialparkstotheeastbeforeturningsouthtotheharbour. It takesmeseven minutes, two car lengths of trafic and eleven carhornstoconvinceMartinthatitsagoodidea.Anditisagoodideaaswepassthroughnewer,emptiercitystreets. It only stops being a good idea when we indourselvesheadingtowardsadeadend,lostinanunfamiliarsuburbthatiseerilybarrenoflife.Thestreetislinedwithconcreteblocksofhousingpaintedin fading shades of pastel blue. They are similar to thecouncil estates in Leeds, the ones built in the Sixties, theonesthatquicklylostanycharmtheymayhavehad.Martinstopsthecarbeforewereachtherowofgaragesthatareourdeadend.Withagrunt,Martinsnatchesthemapoutofmyhands.

Wherehaveyousentus?Hegrumbles. Bloodyhell!Weturnedthewrongwayamileback!Istareathisingeronthemapwonderinghowithappened,eager for him to be wrong, keen to prove that I am right.How that eagerness hasnt faded after all these years ofmarriageandterminalcancer,Illneverknow.Webegintoargue.I knew itwaswrong to trust you. Youneverwere one toreadmaps right. I shouldnt have listened to you. Imean,itsnotlikewereinaforeignbloodycityoranything,isit?A taponmywindow interruptsmyretort. I turnandstareinto a pair of dark eyes. They belong to a teenage boywearing a grey hooded sweatshirt pulled tight around hisface, the strings tied in abow just abovehismouth. For asecond,Iconsiderhowfunnyhelooks,likeheswearinganEaster bonnet. He taps again and I see what is happeningnow. He is knocking the glass with the point of a small,sharpknife.Bloody. Hellire. Martin clunks the cars gear stick intoreverseand Iwait to feel thecaracceleratebackwardsbutthe boy is quicker. My unlocked door is opened by thehooded youth and he leans in. Loud Italian words arebarked atme, fragments of spit leaping out of hismouth.The knife lingers just inches frommy face. Its very cleanandIcanseetheslopeof itssharpness. Istarttofeelverynauseous.

Hewants ourmoney,Martin says and in themadness IthinkabouttheItalianforBeginnersCDfromthelibrary.Giveittohim.MydoorstaysopenandIshrinkintomyseat,frozen.Ihavenever been this scared. Not when I called the ambulancebecause Martin was vomiting blood, in so much pain hecouldntmove.Notatthehospitalalonewaitingtoindoutwhatwas going on, abiding his orders not to call anyone.Not when the consultants letter we already knew thecontentsofarrivedonourdoormat.Never.The teenage boy stands up once more and looks aroundquickly,checking.Hekeepsonehandirmlyontheroofofourcarandshiftshisweightfromfoottofoot,swayingsidetosideinthespacethattheopendoorcreates.Theknifeisnowathiswaist, tucked into the cornerofmyvision.Mywholebodyfeelsasheavyaslead.Icannotmove.Reassured he's not being watched, his bonneted headlowers again and there is more shouting of angry words,this timewith his arm acrossme, touchingme, the knifeextendedinfrontofMartinsface.Bloody give him the bloody money! Martin raises hisvoiceovertheyouths.Suddenly I can move again. I pull my purse out of thehandbagthat liesatmy feetand Iopen itup, ready topulloutnotesandemptythechangeintohishand.Ithinkaboutthewhite envelope still sitting inmybag.Hesnot getting

that.Just give him thewhole bloody thing. He has a knife forGodssake!I throwmyold, tatteredpurseat the teenager,whichhe isnot expecting. It bounces off his chest and falls to thegroundbesidehisleftfoot.Ihearthesoundofcoinsspillingon to the ground. I think about my driving licence, mycreditcards,thecroppedphotosofZara.Ashebendsdowntoclaimitall,Iseethebandofhisboxershortsriseabovehisjeans.Thesekids,theyreallthesame,inNaplesandinLeeds, theyreall the same.Myheartbreaks for thisboy'sdesperationbutatthesametimeIwanttothumphimwithallmymight.Shut your bloody door! Martin shouts, but the car isalready moving. We are reversing at speed. It sounds asthough thecar isgoing to takeofforbreak in two. I reachout to pull the car door and it's onlywhen I hear it slamshutthatI inallyexhaleandstarttosob.Theboysfaceisstucktotheinsideofmyeyelids.Its alright, love, Martin pushes down on the centrallocking. Itsovernow. Ill getyoubacksafe. Itwill allbeokay,Later, much later, when my heart has stopped racing andmyhandshavestoppedshaking,Ithinkagainandagainandagain,OhMartin,whatwillIdowhenyou'renotheretosaythat?

16.ItsthebestthingthathashappenedtoMartininyears.Heisadifferentman.Hebouncesaroundthehotelrelivingthestory.First,hetellsourtaletothereceptionistwhoisntasshockedas Iwouldhave liked.Thenhetells twoof thebestlookingpolicemenIhaveeverseenastheysitoppositeus in a small room, thewalls ofwhich have yellowed somuch I doubt they were ever white. The Film Star hasaccompaniedustothepolicestationasatranslator,aroleIstarttothinkshehasplayedbeforewhenshegreetsamanat theentrance towith two irmkissesoneachcheek.Wearethenusheredpastaqueueofpeoplewaitinginside.He came out of nowhere with this knife. He must haveknownwewere tourists. Right off, he knew it was a hirecar.Aye,hewasyoungbutoldenoughtoknowwhathewasdoing! Maybe fourteen, ifteen? What do you think, love?Yes,ifteen.Didntseethecolourofhiseyes.Ohdarkwerethey, love?Well,brownthen,maybe.Bloodyrascal.Thatsright, grey hooded sweatshirt all tied up around his face.Andblackjeans,whitetrainers,Ithink.Askinnylad.Aboutmyheight,maybeabitshorter.Youknowitsonlybecausemygeniusofawifethrewherpurseontheloorthatwegotaway.Ashebentdowntogetit,Ilooredit.Nearlytookhishead off in the process, ha! I've never gone that fast inreverse before, thought the bloody gearbox was going todropout!Iclampmyhandsoveroneanotherinmylaptostopthem

shaking.IamnotconvincedtheFilmStaroffersaverbatimtranslation. I add the police report Im given to thepaperwork already in the white envelope. As we leave, Iturn back to see the Film Star pressed up closely to thedetectivewhointerviewedus.IdontmentionittoMartin.

17.Martinisstilltalkingaboutitonourlighthomefourdayslater. Thankfully, thewoman he sits next to is fascinated.Shetellsushowrelievedshe is thatshedidnt leaveCaprionceduringherholiday. IaskherpolitelywhatCapriwaslikebutwedontgetmuchfurtherthanOh,lovely,beforeMartinissharinghistheoryontheboybeingamemberoftheNeapolitanmafia.Our taxi iswaiting forusat theairport and Impleased tosee its the same smilingmanwho drove us there only aweek ago. Martin grumbles about it to begin with butshortly after our seat belts are clicked into place he istellingthedriverhisstory.Yes,aknife.Inmywifesface!Oneofthosefoldingblades.Aseriousknife.Imeanyouwouldntcallitamachete,butIwasbloodyterrified!AndyouwereinItalyyousay?Idhavethoughtthingslikethatdonthappenthere.Oh,butdoyouthinkitcouldhavebeenthemafia?IvereadabouttheItalianmafia.I fade inandoutof theirconversation,watchingcarsglidepastus inaway that seemssoorderlynow. I thinkaboutseeingZaraagainandsmellingherhair.IwonderifIshouldbotherilinganinsuranceclaimorifIshouldjustletitgo,like Martin said. I see the boys dark eyes and I hear hisangry voice. I think about Stacie and Steven and if they'llthinkustootanned.Ishudderatalltheliesalreadytoldand

I try to counthowmanymore therewill be. I thinkaboutthepursemade fromItalian leather thatMartinboughtmetwodaysago.Ihopeitneverlosesitssmell. IhearthetapofsharpmetalonglassandIseetheboysdarkeyes.Ithinkabout losing him and how I will cope. I remember theclimbingplantwithbrightpinkflowers.Well, it sounds like a complete nightmare! And what ashame for it to have ruined your holiday. Martins newfriendoffersagentlesmile in therearviewmirror, justashedidaweekago.Martinstaresoutofthewindowastheearlymorningmistrisesoffthegreyandgreenlandwewerebornon.Ruined?No,notatall.Fantasticholiday.Timeofmybloodylife.

THANKYOUFORREADING!

IhopeyouenjoyedMartinandhiswifesstory.IfyoudliketowriteareviewonAmazon,Idbeverygrateful.See the Amali Coast is one of twelve short storiespublishedinShyFeet,mydebutcollectionofshortstories.Youcanbuythefullcollectionforjust$4.49or2.80frommyblog. Alternatively get Shy Feet: Short Stories InspiredbyTravelonAmazon,KoboorSmashwords.YoucantryaFREEsamplefeaturingthreeofthestories inShy Feet,exclusivelyonGoodreads. Just click Downloadexcerpt.If you felt moved by Martins story then please considermaking a donation toSarcomaUK or to theJoanna BryantBenefitTrust,acharitysetupinmemoryofabraveyoungwomanwholostherbattletoSarcomainJanuary2013.Thetrustsupportsotheryoungadultsaffectedbycancerandallroyalties from the sale of this book are donated to thiscause.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

SinceOctober2011,Franceshasbeenlocationindependent,travelling and working around the world with herAustralianpartnerandtoomanyvintageclothes.Sheblogsabout her travels onAs the Bird lies. Now living inAmsterdam, Frances is working on her irst novel andsecondshortstorycollection.To ind out about Frances next release and to enjoyexclusive,freepreviewbooks,subscribetohernewsletter.Franceslovestohearfromreadersandyoucanreachouttoher by email (frances@fmthompson.com) or on Twitter(@bushbirdie).

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