The first time was on a late afternoon train to Macclesfield. It had three carriages and looked nearly as tired as Penny who picked a seat by the aisle next to a large silent man in a suit. The drinks’ trolley yielded nothing but weak tea and crisps and her ‘phone had no signal, so Penny closed her eyes and imagined she was a smoker all over again. How many years had it been since her last cigarette- how long since her last special cigarette? Maybe, she teased herself; just maybe, it would be that perfect one in a field above Spoleto? They were back packing around Italy, and had put up their tent a few days before. Within ten minutes of the tent going up, they were arguing about the position of the flap and the fate of Tim’s hateful beard. Several sweltering days later they had relocated to a small hotel they couldn’t afford because Tim couldn’t stand the ants, and Penny couldn’t stand Tim.
Tim promised to change as usual, but then relented and left for Florence. Penny watched him leave and then entered the discreet dining room where she ate a full breakfast, ordered a day pack from the housekeeper and an hour later went out exploring. She found a backstreet Tabac and bought a packet of Gitanes because Tim was gone and because she could.
There may have been some pain somewhere, but now all she could remember was smoke: – perfect, honeyed, nutty smoke. Each breath elated her and she bathed in the luxuriance of the foreign tobacco, of foreign urges she had no wish to control. She even let her lips droop slightly about the cigarette as if she was someone else, someone cooler and more attractive, even perhaps, handsome. For the smoke let her be everything, anything; it freed her. The smoke was like an artist, it reshaped her and she felt less definite, less cuttingly certain. Penny sat on a rock in an Italian field and smoked away her fears.
Later, Penny had returned to the hotel and rung the camp site pretending she was worried about some lost notebook. Luckily the man on the phone recognised her and suggested it would be easier to return and look through all the lost stuff’perdido’ . So Penny arranged the time and allowed herself another perfect cigarette on her balcony, knowing that the smoke led her back to the pair of amber eyes that did not look away.
‘Soy narratrice.’ She remembered the surprise of that voice and how she flushed when they met again by the washrooms.
The next morning, she climbed down off the bus and walked back up the hill towards the small campsite. She lit a cigarette, aware of her unbuttoned crumpled shirt and dusty sandals, hoping that the morning chores were complete. A scent of coffee and bread trickled towards her and she lifted the latch on the entrance gate, already warm to the touch. A cyclist knelt testing the chain on a yellow mountain bike; as she walked passed him she said ‘good morning’ and for once meant it. Reception was busy as always, with Mariella advising a pair of back packers of the costs for their pitch and tent. She glanced at Penny and smiled; ‘Momento-ciao bella. Try the house or the wash block everyone is everywhere today! ‘
‘Grazie’ said Penny and continued along past all the large tents towards Mariella’s bungalow. She pulled her hat down again over her neck for something to do. Stop twitching she told herself. How could Tim complain about this heat? He claimed it ruined his poetry. ‘Call me a purist’ he would say. He pretended to write about warm hearts and then walked blindly through Italy. A child crossed her path scolding a dog very pleased with a ball. New people were in most tents now, she noticed, except for the two guys in the top tent who were cooking breakfast together. ‘Buongiorno they both nodded at Penny and maybe they had remembered her but she didn’t care because she was back. She was back here.
The house was empty so Penny walked towards the wash block.
‘You’re alone’ said the voice behind the wall.
‘Yes I am’ said Penny.
‘That’s curious said the voice. You don’t sound sad.
I’m not said Penny. ‘Is there any coffee?’
‘Of course’ said the voice.’ Follow me.’
‘British Rail apologise for the delay on the 2-50 to Glasgow due to unforeseen circumstances on the line. We hope that passengers experience will remain patient and we will inform you as soon as we know any more details.’