Serial, final part: From Darla, With Love

THE STORY SO FAR Temporarily back in London, RObYn fails to improve her relationship with her boyfriend, SimOn.

She begins to question whether, based on her family’s history, she’s capable of truly loving someone. In Porthcawl, DARlA’s daughter, GwEn, turns 10 years old and Darla meets a mysterious Italian man called mARcO on the beach. Clearly attracted to Darla, he tells her that he too was interned during the war, as her beloved father would have been had he survived. Over the following few years, DAi, Darla’s husband, embarks on a series of poorly hidden affairs. In 1959, with her daughter now engaged and pregnant, Darla once again slips out into the night. But this time, she disappears for good. In the present day, Robyn returns to Wales for the summer to care for her grandmother, Gwen, and in a highly emotional confrontation is told that Darla didn’t die – she eloped back to Italy with Marco.

The story now concludes

Darla September 1976.

Bardi, Italy

Darla loved the early mornings best of all. Before the other people came out in their droves, before the tourists pitched up, and before the sun was at its hottest. It wasn’t that she disliked whiling away the hours with the profusion of second and third generation cousins she’d discovered in Bardi, it was simply that she relished the peace of dawn; the air, the fragrances, the sounds of the large village languidly awakening. It reminded her of home. Of Porthcawl. Of her mother winding down the awning over the cafe window. Of her father finishing off the cake display, quietly preparing for the day ahead. In the strangest of ways, it wasn’t so very different from Wales. Except for the sea. Sitting high up in rolling hills and valleys, Bardi was about as far removed from a seaside town as it was possible to be. And this pained Darla, even after almost two decades of living in the picturesque location. On most days, the smell of brine, the screech of gulls and the crashing of heavy, violent waves played like an old movie in her head. Marco called it ‘her background music’ and he was right. Home would always be Porthcawl, even though she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she’d never see it again. Never see Morwen or her mother. Never try to hold Gwen in her arms, never gain her daughter’s forgiveness for walking away.

The weather had cooled now, and Darla was grateful for it. The summer just passed had been blazing hot at times, as it had across much of Europe, especially back home. So, now, with a cool breeze and the scent of autumn in the air, Darla was happy. At a little before eight o’clock, she quietly let herself out of the house, taking care not to wake Marco, and wandered the length of

Via Pietro Cella, passed the pharmacy and the tobacconist, and the beautiful archway leading to one of her cousin’s courtyard house, and out into the wide Piazza Vittoria.

The cafe at the edge of the square wasn’t properly open, but they were used to her visits. She had barely pulled out a wicker chair before the owner’s wife placed a cup of black coffee in front of her. The women smiled at each other, but didn’t speak. It was a pact they had, each leaving the other to slowly edge her way into the new day in her own private way. Darla took a sip, the hot liquid bitter on her tongue. It was just how her father used to make it. She still remembered, even though he’d been dead for more than 35 years. Leaning back in her chair, her eyes closed and she exhaled slowly. This was it, her favourite part of every day; sitting on the edge of a piazza he’d loved as a child, drinking coffee that tasted just like his, breathing the same clean mountain air that had once filled his lungs. Porthcawl might still feel like home, but Bardi was where she belonged.

The scraping of the chair next to hers jolted her back to the moment. She opened her eyes. The coffee slopped a little as Marco sat clumsily down at the table beside her. Instantly, panic knotted Darla’s stomach. This never happened. Marco, was not a morning person. In all the years they’d lived together, he’d been up most nights, cooking, reading, and playing his guitar. Often, when he eventually slipped into bed, she felt his presence from the depth of sleep, his kisses, his arm across her body, the soft warmth of his skin next to hers. He rarely woke before the sun was streaming into

Home would always be Porthcawl, even though she’d never see it again

the bedroom, and he never followed her to the cafe.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, knowing before the words left her mouth that something terrible must have happened at home. In Porthcawl.

Marco took her hand in his. In a month’s time, he would be 60. It didn’t seem possible. Where had the years gone? He fixed his eyes on hers. ‘Your mother just called.’ ‘Is she all right?’

‘Yes, it’s not her,’ Marco said. ‘It’s Dai. He had a heart attack yesterday. Darla, there’s no easy way to say this. Dai died yesterday afternoon.’

‘But he’s only 61.’

‘I know. It’s no age.’ Marco looked down, frowning. ‘But we know how much he smoked and drank.’ Marco sighed.

Darla sat perfectly still, watching Marco stroke her hand, her body frozen but her mind racing. The words that Marco had left unspoken were that Dai’s heart had been struggling for years. Physically, yes, but emotionally too. He had never fully recovered from the shock of losing her, despite his many affairs. Even her mother, who completely understood why Darla had gone and who phoned every Sunday, had reluctantly admitted that Dai’s heart was broken. By Darla. ‘How’s Gwen? Did she say?’ Marco looked up, his brown eyes heavy with sadness. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘Apparently, she’s not good.’

‘I must go to her.’ Darla stood up quickly, pulling her hand from Marco’s.

He frowned, and stood too. He hesitated before speaking again. ‘I told your mother that’s what you’d say.’ He ran his hand across his stubbled chin. Darla watched him, the knot in her stomach twisting tighter and her body quivering.

‘She doesn’t want me there, does she?’ she said, the words catching in her throat.

Slowly, Marco shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry. She made your mother promise to keep you away.’

Robyn October 2017. Cardiff

They sat opposite one another at the dining-room table. A week earlier, it had been brought back into the house from the shed, polished, and repositioned into its rightful place. And Gwen’s bed had been returned upstairs, to the double-aspect room at the front, where she could sit by the window and watch the comings and goings of neighbours. She seemed much happier, even Robyn could see, to have a semblance of her old life back. A pot of tea sat between them, stewing.

‘And the school don’t mind? You’re sure?’

Robyn nodded her head. It was the third time at least that her grandmother had checked that a sabbatical wasn’t the same as being fired. To be honest, Robyn hadn’t been entirely sure that they’d agree to her four-month break either, but thankfully they had. She was due back in the classroom at the beginning of January. That left her three more months to get her life in order, and the list of tasks was long: Italy, the Lombardis, Gwen, Carys, Simon. So, here she was back in Cardiff, making a start with Gwen.

Taking a deep breath,

Robyn launched into the conversation that would kick-start everything. ‘I’ve decided to go to Bardi, Gwen,’ she said. ‘I know you won’t like it, but I have to see for myself where Darla came from. Where we all came from.’

Gwen said nothing. Her face hardened, as it was inclined to when anything cropped up that she was less than happy about, but her mouth stayed firmly shut. Robyn pushed on.

‘I found Allegra Lombardi on Facebook, and I’ve messaged her. Do you remember? I told you about her from Darla’s letters. I’m hoping she’ll agree to see me.’

Gwen snorted.

‘And,’ Robyn continued, ‘I’ve decided to find mum while

I’m out there. The last thing I heard, she was in Rome. I’d like to see her again, I think.’ ‘Why?’

Robyn looked up at Gwen. ‘Because she’s my mother.’

Gwen snorted again and reached over to the pot of tea. With an incredibly steady hand, she poured two cups. Robyn watched in silence, waiting for the retort. When it came, she wasn’t surprised.

‘Yes, and she walked out on you to please herself.

Just like Darla did to me,’

Gwen said.

In the many sleepless night since learning of the existence of Darla, Robyn had considered this very point, over and over. Tommaso Lombardi’s death had set in motion a change of events that still rippled through the generations of his family almost 80 years later. Robyn had read every letter and postcard Darla had written to Gwen from Italy. There had been a staggering 498 in total, up until February 2001. Since then, there had been none.

‘I’ve decided to go to Bardi,’ Robyn said. ‘I have to see where Darla came from’

Darla had either given up trying to mend her relationship with her daughter, or she’d died. Robyn, sadly, was sure it was the latter. She would have been 82 years old by then. With the exception of three, none of the letters had been opened before Robyn broke their seal, letting the world they contain spill out. It had instantly beguiled her, full of obvious regret and guilt, but also untold love, humour and hope. The curl of Darla’s handwriting, the phrases she used, the descriptions of Bardi, the food, the festivals, the happenings to Gwen’s extended family (and by default, Robyn’s too), had filled her with a desire to see it for herself. And among the hundreds of pages, during the letters from the late 1980s, Darla mentioned the birth of a new baby, a girl called Allegra. She was the daughter of another Tommaso, named after his great-grandfather, who had been Darla’s father. It was all very confusing, there were so many of them, and Darla jumped from family to family in her letters as though Gwen would have known who they were. All that Robyn knew for certain was that she and Allegra Lombardi were about the same age, that they were somehow related, and that Allegra was on Facebook. It didn’t matter that Darla had walked away from Gwen, or that Carys had done the same to her. What mattered now was preventing the unwitting legacy of Tommaso Lombardi from continuing through another generation. It was time to stop letting the past shape the future. Time for mothers to love their daughters unconditionally, and for the daughters to stop blaming their mothers.

Robyn placed a hand on her grandmother’s arm. ‘What Darla did to you was harsh. What my mother did to me was too. But where does that leave us?’

Gwen blinked several times. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Robyn said.

‘You ended up in an emotional stalemate with my mother. You were scared of loving her too much or not enough, and in the end she couldn’t wait to escape to London. She ran away, just like Darla. It wasn’t your fault. But it wasn’t theirs, either. You let Darla’s agony taint your life, long after she wanted to apologise.’

Gwen’s eyes filled with tears. Robyn squeezed her arm tighter. ‘I need to find peace with all this. If I don’t, it’s just going to mess me up too.’

Gwen nodded. ‘I really wanted to be a good mother,’ she said. ‘I tried so hard.’ ‘I know.’

‘But the more I tried, the more your mother pulled away. Did you read all the letters?’ Gwen asked.

Robyn nodded.

Gwen began to sob. ‘Was she happy, my mum?’

‘Yes, I think she was. But she never stopped missing Tommaso. And she never stopped loving you.’

Darla February 2001. Bardi, Italy

When had the walk from the house to the piazza become so steep? She was an old lady, she knew that much, but it was as though someone had taken the village and tipped it up, turning streets that had once been gentle hills into tortuous mountainsides. Marco laughed at her for it, but she knew she was right. Parts of the village had to be sinking. That would be the answer. Still, whatever the reason, it didn’t help much when she needed a coffee.

The morning air was cold and made her cough the moment they were outside. Allegra held her arm tightly and walked at a snail’s pace beside her, which made Darla smile.

There was something highly comical about a 14-year-old girl bent double beside an old woman. She was a good child. Perhaps Gwen’s daughter, Carys, had been like this. Or even Carys’ own daughter, Robyn. She’d heard about them all from her mother, before she passed away. In her mind, Darla imagined them both to be like little Allegra. It wasn’t likely to be true, but she was too old now for the sadness of reality.

‘It was chilly like this back home,’ she said to Allegra, glad for the girl’s strong grip.

‘Was it?’ Allegra looked up at her and grinned. ‘Tell me again about the sea, Auntie Darla.’

‘Oh, the sea,’ Darla said. ‘Let’s sit here while I catch my breath.’

Allegra looked concerned. They had, after all, travelled only a short way, but something inside Darla was telling her to sit down, and the girl didn’t argue. The tiles of the raised step were cool, even through her winter coat. But Darla didn’t mind. It really did feel like Porthcawl. Like the chill of the cake counter beneath her skirt when her father fed her homemade ice cream.

Like sitting on the cold rocks against the sea wall. Or kissing Dai against the glass of the cafe window.

‘You see that over there,’ Darla said, pointing to a huge peeling poster across the street.

Allegra nodded.

‘See the blues and greens, and the smudges of grey?’

The girl nodded again.

‘That’s what the sea looked like. It could be all those colours and black too. It was never the same two days running. It...’

In her head, the words continued. She told Allegra about the way the light shone off the water, glinting like a thousand diamonds; how the tide could rush in and gather you up in its hurry to be somewhere else; what it felt like to walk home barefoot across the promenade with salty, wet feet. In her head, she said it all. But not in reality. In reality, the sadness of that February morning was that Darla Lombardi’s heart stopped beating, and she became silent. In that one second, mid-sentence, she passed from life to death. No more thoughts. No more sorrow. No more letters. Finally, Darla was free.

‘You let Darla’s agony taint your life, long after she wanted to apologise’

Robyn October 2017. Bardi, Italy

Robyn’s heart was in her mouth. The woman sitting opposite her, talking loudly into her mobile phone, looked so like her that there could be no escaping the truth: Robyn and Allegra were related. She took a sip of her wine. And then another. If Allegra didn’t finish the call to her brother soon, Robyn would be tipsy. Allegra caught her eye and smiled, said something super-fast in Italian, and hung up.

‘Robyn, I can’t believe you’re here!’ she exclaimed.

‘I know, it’s crazy, isn’t it?’ Allegra nodded, the smile fading. ‘You know I was with Auntie Darla the day she died.’

Robyn swallowed. She hadn’t known.

‘In fact,’ Allegra continued,

‘It was just a little way down there.’ Robyn followed the point of her finger down a side street.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Robyn said. ‘I wish I’d known her. I feel like her know her, after reading her letters to her daughter. But

it’s not the same thing, is it?’

Allegra shrugged. ‘You know Auntie Darla never stopped talking about Wales. About the place she came from, I can’t remember how to say it now.’ ‘Porthcawl.’

‘That’s it! Have you actually been there?’

Robyn nodded.

‘You see! You have seen something of hers that I haven’t.’ Allegra shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that after all these years her daughter is still alive. I don’t quite know what happened between them but she loved her so much.’

The familiar knot of emotion was back in Robyn’s chest.

She tried to smile, but her eyes flooded with tears.

‘Oh darling,’ Allegra said, gripping Robyn’s hand tighter. ‘Don’t be sad. Auntie Darla has brought you here, to us. You will always belong here now, even if you leave and never return. In our hearts, you will be with us. That’s how it is.’

Robyn nodded. That was how it was going to be with her own daughter, if she ever had one. And Carys and Gwen too. And Simon, if he’d still have her when she finally ended up back in London.

‘And you know what, she was so happy here. They had a lovely house. I’ll show you. And Marco, he was such a fine man. He only passed away five years ago. Can you believe that. He was 97!’

Robyn forced herself to speak. ‘Darla’s best friend at home died a few months ago. She was about the same age.’

‘Well,’ Allegra said, smiling again. ‘These old people certainly knew how to live.’ Releasing Robyn’s hand, she ducked down beside her chair, and pulled something from her huge bag. The moment she laid it upon the table, Robyn’s heart raced again. A letter, or rather two. Sealed envelopes. Darla’s unforgettable handwriting. ‘Before my brother arrives and everything gets too loud, I wanted to give you these.’ Gently, she pushed them towards Robyn. ‘She gave them to me not long before she died.’ Allegra shrugged. ‘Maybe she knew something was wrong.’

On the front of one, the name Carys was written in neat italics. On the other, her own name. ‘She knew I existed?’

‘Of course, she did. Her mother was alive when you and I were born. She told Auntie Darla everything.’

Robyn swallowed hard again. ‘But how did she know I would come here?’

Allegra shook her head. ‘I don’t think she did. I think she hoped. And here you are.’

Robyn pulled the letters to her, moving hers to the top.

She laid her fingers across the looped letters, imagining Darla

‘She knew I existed. But how did she know I would come here?’

writing her name, calling to her from the past. Of all the things she could have discovered in Bardi, she’d never imagined this. Darla had known she existed. How incredible was that?

‘Are you going to open it?’ Allegra asked.

Looking up, Robyn shook her head. There would be plenty of time, when she was alone. When she sat facing the sea at Porthcawl, maybe. The door to the bar opened and a young man shouted to them across the crowd.

‘My brother,’ Allegra said, standing up and waving at him. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Robyn smiled, gathered the letters from the table and slipped them into her pocket.

What she didn’t notice then, but would later, in the eventual peace of her hotel room, brought her back to tears. Written on the reverse of both envelope was a final short, sweet message from the woman who had changed Robyn’s life from beyond the grave.

Four simple words that meant everything.

From Darla, with love.

THE END