‘Go and have a look,’ her mother said, handing her a piece of rope she’d found in a drawer. ‘And put up this washing line while you’re there… and please be careful, the railings are not safe.’
At the top of stairs was a landing with three doors leading off it. Livia tried the handle of the first door, and it opened to reveal a dark attic space, illuminated only by a tiny window, and filled with wooden tea chests, an old desk and a couple of broken chairs. Peering into the chests, Livia saw they contained nothing but old legal files of her father’s clients. Opening the second door revealed a minuscule space filled once again with tea chests. The final door was part-glazed, and although its windows were smeared with years of grime, Livia had a tantalising glimpse of the roof terrace beyond. On it she could see a rusting pergola, and a battered metal table and chairs.
She opened the rickety door, and walked out onto the terrace, instantly feeling the sun beating down on the back of her neck. The terrace itself was about three metres square, edged by a low wall into which was concreted a flimsy metal rail running around the perimeter at waist height. Her mother had been right: the rail wobbled when she pushed it. But in spite of the shabby surroundings, Livia could imagine the family eating up there, the old plant pots filled once again with scarlet geraniums and flowering climbers.
At one end of the terrace, there was a fixed ladder which led to a flat roof above. Intrigued, Livia climbed the ladder. Disappointingly, the roof contained nothing more than the water tank for the building, but the view was spectacular. Shielding her eyes against the fierce Florentine sun, she admired the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama of the city. To the south, the bronze-green cupola of the Duomo, and further west the angular blond splendour of the church of Santa Croce. To the north, the city was framed by the soft green hills on top of which stood the village of Fiesole, behind which, much further away, she could imagine the family villa. In the foreground, and surrounding the terrace, were the rich-red terracotta roofs of the neighbouring buildings.
She clambered back down the ladder and began to look for a way to attach the washing line. An old hook projecting from a wall seemed sturdy enough, and she tied the other end to the rusting pergola.
‘It’s wonderful,’ said Livia, coming back into the kitchen. ‘The view is so beautiful – we should eat our meals up there. And if we cleared out Papa’s papers, I could move into that little attic room, so Papa could have his study back.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ said her mother. ‘Where would we put all his papers? He won’t hear of getting rid of anything, and his office in the city is completely full up. Besides, the attic room has no insulation. Really, you wouldn’t like it – it’s boiling hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. But the terrace is a good place to hang the laundry. Now help me.’
In the first few days of living in the city, Livia found it thrilling to walk down the narrow cobbled road towards the Duomo each morning and feel that she was really part of this bustling city. She was fascinated by the eclectic mix of people she encountered on her daily journey – the street traders calling out to passers-by; the clerics rushing to church to conduct morning prayers, their black robes flapping; the ladies who, in spite of the war, maintained a certain elegance, clicking down the road in their high-heeled shoes, on their way to coffee or lunch. Livia often wondered who they were meeting, dressed in such finery.
Gradually, the family settled into city life. Luisa coped with the privations, as she saw them, of urban living. Food was getting scarce all over Italy and supplies to the markets were dwindling. Meat was almost unobtainable and all the staple foods like flour, sugar and salt were rationed. Giacomo, of course, appeared to be unconcerned about such trivialities and simply buried himself in his work. Livia relished the freedom her studies gave her. She quickly made friends at the university, and enjoyed spending time with them – roaming the streets with a gaggle of girls, or lying on the grass in the Boboli Gardens. One young girl in particular became her closest friend.
Elena Lombardi was studying the same subjects as Livia, and the two girls quickly formed a bond. Slight in stature, with bright blue eyes and golden curls that framed her pretty face, Elena was the physical opposite of Livia, who was taller, with shoulder-length dark hair and large brown eyes. Brought up in Florence, Elena had attended a day school for girls near the Duomo. Her life had been much freer than Livia’s more strict boarding-school upbringing. To Livia’s delight, she knew the city well, and together they visited quirky little cafés and out-of-the-way bookshops. Elena even had male friends – young men who held no romantic attraction for her, but were simply people to have coffee or lunch with. This made her, in Livia’s eyes, both sophisticated and worldly and she felt lucky to have such a knowledgeable friend.
For her part, Elena loved Livia’s enthusiasm and original way of looking at the world.
‘You’re not like other girls I’ve met,’ she said one afternoon, as they lay on the grass overlooking the central pond in the Boboli Gardens, listening to the refreshing sound of splashing water from the fountain. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun’s heat had begun to ebb away.
‘In what way?’ asked Livia.
‘You don’t follow the herd – you make up your own mind. I like that.’
‘My father’s influence, I suspect,’ said Livia. ‘That, and years of boarding school. It made me rather rebellious.’
‘What was it like?’
‘It was… restrictive,’ Livia replied, her hand running over the grass, feeling it cool beneath her fingers. ‘Although less restrictive than having a governess who insisted on putting a board down my back.’ She giggled.
‘Did she really do that?’ Elena was aghast.
‘She did – even on holiday. We used to go and stay with friends who had a villa on the coast, near Forte dei Marmi; do you know it?’
Elena shook her head.
‘I was only allowed to take the board off when I went swimming.’
‘Did your parents approve of this torture?’
‘My mother did. She always told me I’d be grateful in the end. I don’t think my father really noticed.’
‘Your childhood sounds fascinating, if a little claustrophobic,’ said Elena, laughing. Secretly she was intrigued by her friend’s genteel upbringing. ‘Did you live on a big estate, growing up?’
‘No! There used to be a lot of land with vineyards and so on, but it was sold off a long time ago. My grandfather, and his father before him, were no good with money, or so my father says.’
‘Well, I think you look very aristocratic,’ Elena said, casting a shy glance at Livia’s elegant profile. ‘Like one of the Medici beauties we were looking at yesterday in class.’
Livia blushed. ‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘Are you ashamed of your background?’ Elena asked. ‘You always seem embarrassed talking about it.’
‘I suppose I am,’ Livia said shyly. ‘My father despises inherited wealth. In his work as a lawyer, he always supports the “little man”: people who can’t fight for themselves – the worker, the tenant, the shopkeeper fighting injustice from a domineering landlord, that sort of thing. I suppose it’s rubbed off on me. Besides, we don’t have much money now.’ She looked over at her friend lying on the grass. ‘Now, that’s enough about me. I want to know all about your family.’