Winter had arrived in Gozo. Instead of the vibrant splashes of colour that dotted Victoria in summer, soft grey clouds floated overhead, as though giants had thrown a silk veil over the island. Republic Street was no longer awash with day-trippers and adorned in strings of lights, ready for the long-awaited village feast. Instead, the grey asphalt was tinted black by the dripping of an incessant drizzle that refused to stop. The clouds mourned the moribund summer, yet the twinkle of Christmas still seemed a long way off.
Laura had only returned to her familiar, childhood home for a few weeks. As she battled the slope to her mother’s house, dragging her suitcase behind her, the wide streets of London, etched so deeply into her mind, were slowly being replaced by the narrow, serpentine alleyways of her childhood. Laura heaved the suitcase onto the pavement before her mother’s house: the home of her youth. As the dark polished door opened, the scent of slowly simmering rabbit stew enveloped her before her mother did.
The house never changed: the ornate gold mirror still dominated the entrance hall, under which a marble-topped chest of drawers stood, adorned by a basket of dried flowers underneath a glass dome. Kicking off her moccasins, Laura could feel the cool marble floor beneath her feet, as her mother, Maria, ladled the stew out onto deep glass plates, before setting them down on the polished wooden table. Home.
The gloomy house was haunted by Maria’s stooped figure hobbling around it. Eager to escape the damp twilight within it, Laura had offered to go shopping. List in pocket and scarf around neck, she had ventured out into the drizzle, plucking a white African Daisy from the window box as she went. Gozo was known for its hills – there were as many inclines as there were people. Still, with no weight to carry, Laura huffed her way up the slope, heading for the market. Although not summer, the heat had somehow lingered on, outstaying its welcome– Riħ Isfel, the Gozitans would nod in agreement, grumbling furtively to eachother.
There was a new stall at the market. Antiques. The woman behind it was plump and cheerful, despite the weather. Her wares were mostly a jumble of oddments. Bric-a-brac, the Londoners would call it. Little did they know that most of these items, ranging from two tall sky-blue vases, to large earthenware dishes, to a cumbersome old iron, would have occupied pride of place in someone’s home. Everything aged was treated with reverence in Gozo.
Laura’s keen eyes spied a treasure among the flotsam of time. A small rectangular clock squatted next to the owner’s feet, with a round white face, a triangular top, and two finials rising from the triangle base. The pendulum was encased behind a stained-glass window bearing a white star on a blue background.
“Arloġġ tal-Kampnari they call it here. Very nice condition. Usually 200 euros, but for you, 150. How is that?”
The woman had noticed what Laura’s eyes were staring at. Laura nervously let go of the flower she carried and bit her lip. The bud floated down through the air and landed on the cobbled pavement. Raindrops slowly began covering it.
“Oh, no thanks, just looking.” Laura hurriedly walked down the street and turned a corner, all the while being followed by the Antique peddler’s beady brown eyes.
She’s a strange one, she thought to herself as she turned her eyes towards her beloved antiques, only to find that her prize find, the small Gozitan clock was no longer there.
The flower disappeared off the pavement, as if by magic.
The clouds had finally made their minds up, and the drizzle quickly turned into a downpour.
As the antiques peddler quickly stowed her wares into her battered white car, she failed to notice a slight figure with a scarf round her neck and a flower in her hair running back down the slope, a small antique clock clasped tightly under her arm.
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