The Last Concerto. Sara Alexander

to Alba’s relief. The driver rolled down the window and she set to work filling the tank, offering a clean of the windscreen too, which didn’t interest the driver until Mario piped in with his patter and convinced him of a quick clean wash. He paid Alba, handed her a five thousand lire tip, and drove off.

      ‘Fifty-fifty, right?’ Mario asked.

      ‘What?’

      ‘You’re desperate for money and I don’t know why, but I’m enjoying the look of desperation on your face.’

      Alba felt anger surge through her bones.

      They worked in brittle unison for the next two weeks, sometimes even through the lunch hours to catch the odd stray traveller or commuter returning to town for lunch and siesta. Tiredness crept around Alba, tightening like a vine, but she charged on because the alternative was incomprehensible. Dizzy from the heat and lack of sleep she slammed the pump back into its slot and caught the tip of her finger. Blood spurted out. Panic bolted through her as she examined the tip, then unexpected tears followed. Mario came over to her.

      ‘What the hell’s going on?’

      ‘Nothing!’ she spat.

      ‘You bleeding?’

      ‘No, it’s fine.’

      He left and returned with a crushed clump of toilet tissue and threw it at her.

      ‘Don’t thank me,’ he said.

      ‘I won’t.’

      She blotted her hand and watched the droplets spread along the fibres. When she saw the cut looked superficial, her panicked tears became those of relief, and then smarting embarrassment. She tightened the knot of tissue.

      ‘You look like crap. Go inside and clean up before your dad thinks I did it.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ she managed, just before more tears fought their way out. The tarmac heated underfoot; she longed for it to become molten so she’d be swallowed inside.

      Bruno walked across the forecourt. He looked down at his daughter’s hand.

      ‘Get home, Alba.’

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘You’re a mess. Get home. Now.’

      Alba refused to look at Mario’s victorious expression. She walked over to her dad. ‘Please let me stay,’ she begged under her breath so Mario wouldn’t hear. ‘I’ll be more careful. The customers like me. I’m doing well.’

      Bruno leaned in. She could smell aqua vitae on his breath. ‘Be happy we’re not at home so my hands can’t say what they’d like. If I say go home, you go home. You want to work? You’ve got to listen to your boss. You barely know what you’re doing inside in the office. I’m not having any child of mine make a fool of me outside too. Do you get that into your thick skull? Walk with me into the car. Now.’

      Alba felt his hand on her elbow, pressing harder than he needed. He slammed the door after her. Alba could picture Mario’s face now. They stepped into the cool of the house, Alba’s face oil-smeared, her overalls damp with gas stains, her hands still smelling of the metal pump.

      ‘O Dio, look at the state of you. Go and get clean, child!’ Giovanna yelled.

      ‘And don’t come down until we’ve finished lunch!’ Bruno added.

      Alba shot a look to her father.

      ‘You heard! You should have seen the way I had to drag her away, Giovanna. Talking to me like I’m some idiot. You think that’s all right, do you?’

      ‘I just want to work!’ Alba blurted.

      ‘Why? You have a house! You’ll have a rich husband soon enough once he graduates with his finance degree. What is wrong with you?’

      ‘Nothing is wrong, Bruno,’ Giovanna interrupted. He swung back to her so fast Alba almost didn’t see him take his hand to her face. ‘Shut up! The girl is not right. Never has been!’ He switched back to his daughter. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to save up to get the hell out of here!’

      ‘That’s crazy,’ Giovanna whimpered, her cheek red. ‘She’s going to be a good girl now, aren’t you, Alba? Everything is planned out.’ Her begging descended into sobs. Bruno grabbed her chin. ‘I told you quiet!’