by Rhys Bowen
I wandered aimlessly around London, debating whether to go down to Surrey and see my father or not, trying to come up with some kind of solution . . . And I didn’t see the taxi come speeding around the corner as I stepped out to cross King’s Road in Chelsea. I remember the sensation of flying, then of lying on the pavement with faces staring down at me, and a kind man covering me with his jacket, and an ambulance. Then nothing much for a couple of days. Scarlet came to see me in hospital. She asked if she should telephone my father, but I didn’t want her to. I felt too weak to face him. It wasn’t until a few days later that I learned that among my other injuries—broken ribs, broken collarbone, a severe concussion—I’d had a miscarriage and lost the baby. I should have been relieved, but instead I wept.
Adrian came to see me, too, and sat on the side of my bed, holding my hand awkwardly and muttering pleasantries that it was all for the best, wasn’t it, and I’d be as good as new in no time. Actually, it took quite a while for me to heal. I had dizzy spells. Terrible headaches. It hurt me to breathe. Adrian came to see me daily at first, then less frequently. When I was due to come out of hospital, he came and sat at my bedside and said he thought it would be better if I went home to my father to recuperate. He had something he’d wanted to tell me for some time, but he’d waited until I was strong enough. He had fallen in love with someone else. He was going to get married—to the daughter of the senior partner at his law firm.
And that was that. I collected my things and fled to the only safe haven I could think of: Scarlet’s flat. She, bless her heart, welcomed me with open arms. She let me curl up on her sofa and recover. But I was still too fragile to go back to work. My solicitors were understanding to start with. They realised I’d had a bad accident and wished me well. But lately they’d made it clear that they wouldn’t wait forever.
The physical wounds were healed, but there was still a big, empty void inside me. It felt as if I had been going around like a shadow of my former self, like a hollow person with no clear purpose and frankly not much hope. What I wanted was my mother. I suppose my father had never allowed me to grieve properly when she died. We had to make the best of things and soldier on, to be a credit to the family. That was what I’d been told, and it was only now that I was grieving for her. I wanted someone like Paola to love me.
Eventually I cried myself to sleep. I awoke the next morning to the sounds of the countryside: a rooster crowing, a dawn chorus of birdsong. Sunlight was streaming in through slatted blinds. I got up feeling strangely energised and refreshed, looked at myself in the bathroom mirror, and was horrified at the puffy, misshapen face I saw staring back at me. I’d definitely need a shower before I allowed Paola to see me.
I pulled on the shower handle. A small trickle of water came out and then stopped altogether. I thought maybe I’d got the mechanism wrong, and tried turning it in the other direction. Whatever I did I could get no water.
Frustrated now, I put on yesterday’s clothes, brushed my hair, tried to cover my blotchy face with powder, and went to look at the well. Had the pump somehow ceased to function? The well was housed inside a wooden structure, the lid of it held in place with a large stone. I removed the stone, then tried to raise the lid. It was too heavy for one person to lift, or at least for me to do so. I tried several times, then gave up, admitted defeat, and went up to the farmhouse. I wondered if Paola would be awake this early, but as I approached the kitchen, I heard her singing. Through the open window I watched her kneading dough at the table. Such a warm and comforting scene. I tapped on the back door so that she wasn’t startled, then entered. She turned to me, a big, welcoming smile on her face. “Ah, my little one, you are awake with the sun. Did you sleep well last night?”
If she noticed my face was not looking its best, she did not betray the fact.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but the shower. It gives no water. I have turned the handle this way and that way and still no water. I tried to see if there is a fault with the well, but I cannot lift the cover alone.”
She looked puzzled. “That is strange. Maybe there is something wrong with the pump in the well, but it was working perfectly when I tested it a few days ago. Come, we shall see.”
I followed her through the garden to a small shelter behind my little house. “Come, we shall lift the cover together,” she said. I took one side and she the other and we lifted it.
“Now, let us see what is the matter,” she said.
We peered inside. I’m not sure which of us screamed. I heard the sound piercing through my head, and I know my own mouth was open. A man’s body had been jammed into the top of the well.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HUGO
December 1944
Miraculously, the aspirin did seem to bring down Hugo’s fever a little. He felt like a limp rag, but remembering Sofia’s stern admonition, he forced himself to sip at the soup. Then he lay back, gasping, his forehead beaded with sweat. What will happen now? he worried. What if gangrene had set in and his leg had to be amputated? It was obvious he’d never make it past the Germans to the Allies, and Sofia had been right—if the Germans came upon him in this condition, they would see him as a hindrance and a liability and would dispatch him instantly. He realised there was little hope of surviving. He wondered if he should do the right thing and try to make his way down to that road below and await his fate rather than risk any more visits from Sofia.
When he tried to get up, nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him. He realised he could not go anywhere in this state. That was when he took out his service revolver and examined it, turning it over in his hand. He could end his life now. That would be the best thing to do, the noble way out. He felt the heaviness of the revolver, pictured how he’d point it at his temple, hold it steady, and click. All over. But he hesitated. Not from fear of ending his life, but because he didn’t want Sofia to find his head blown away. He didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.
“If the leg gets worse,” he told himself, “if gangrene really sets in, then I’ll do it. But I’ll tell her what I’m going to do and why it is the only solution.”
Then he lay back and fell into a restless, fevered sleep.
He wasn’t sure how many days passed this way. He was vaguely aware that she came again, that she cleaned his wound with something that stung so badly he had screamed. He remembered she had held his head, made him swallow some kind of medicine, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tried to make him take some warm soup. But he remembered these things as part of unquiet dreams, not sure they had actually happened.
So it was a surprise for him to open his eyes one bright morning and find that he felt comfortably warm and the fever had departed. As he came back to full consciousness, he realised he had a real pillow under his head, a sheepskin over him, and something tied to his wrist. He held up his arm and saw it was a medal. A religious medal to some kind of saint. Whoever it is, it certainly worked, he thought.
He attempted to extricate himself from the cocoon that had been wound around him. Even that small task was beyond him, and he lay back before attempting again. This time he succeeded. He freed himself, wriggled out of his shelter, and felt the coldness of the stone floor against his body. He tried to stand but gave up when the room swung around him and he felt horribly nauseous. He sipped a little water and took a few bites of the bread that had been left on the bench beside him. When he plucked up the courage to examine his wound, he went to take down his trousers and was astounded to see that they were not his own. They were made of coarse black wool. And he was wearing different underpants, too. She had changed his clothes for him while he’d slept like a baby. He turned his face toward the wall, his cheeks burning, feeling horribly embarrassed and ashamed, even though he’d had no part in this.
Carefully he pulled back the trouser leg until he came to the bandage. It was no longer soaked in blood, which was a good sign. And the wound didn’t smell bad, which was even better. He unwound the bandage and
peeled back the pad from the wound. It wasn’t a pretty sight, with part of his flesh blown away, but it wasn’t too awful, either. It was clearly healing. He washed it with the remains of the water, then applied a clean pad and reapplied the bandage.
Then he rearranged himself in his hiding place and waited for Sofia to come. He glanced at his watch but it had stopped. Of course, he hadn’t wound it for days. From the position of the shadows on the wall, he could tell it was still early morning.
In the distance he heard a church bell ringing, followed almost immediately by one closer by. More than the tolling of the hour this time. The bells went on and on until the air echoed with the sound. Sunday, he thought, it must be Sunday, and felt comforted that all around him people were going to church to pray. He had never been much for God himself. Members of the British aristocracy went to church as a display of solidarity with the lower classes around them but didn’t actually believe. At least his father didn’t. He had once said to Hugo, “When you have been in the trenches and watched men blown apart or drowning in mud, you can’t believe that any God would let those things happen and not interfere.”
And yet Sofia had tied the saint’s medal to his wrist and it seemed to have worked. He tried a tentative prayer. “Dear God, if you’re there and you can hear me, keep her safe. Let me get home somehow. Protect Langley Hall and those in it. And, dear God, protect Sofia and her family.” He was going to add, “Let her husband still be alive and come back to her,” but he couldn’t say the words.
The bells died away to silence. He fished for his packet of cigarettes. There were twelve left from the twenty. He lit one, lay back, and smoked it, watching the vapour hanging in the frigid air. The day was quite still. No birdsong, no wind, no dogs barking. Utter stillness. It felt as if he was the only person in the world.
He wondered when she would come. He suspected she wouldn’t go out looking for mushrooms on a Sunday. He remembered from his own time in Italy that Sundays had been times for church and big family meals. Not that she had much food or much of a family, but she’d be obliged to stay with them. He felt empty and hungry, so he finished the bread that was already becoming stale. A pigeon flapped and fluttered across the top of the wall, and he wished he had the strength to get up and set that trap. But he hadn’t.
A watery sun rose higher in the sky. The day passed. The sun sank again and still she didn’t come. He fought with disappointment. Of course she couldn’t come on a Sunday. He’d already realised that. Maybe she’d slip away in the dark again, although he didn’t like the idea of her walking alone through the olive groves when there might be Germans or partisans or black-marketeers prowling around. He lit his candle but eventually blew it out, afraid of wasting it. He lay awake, listening to the night sounds, the hoot of an owl, the sigh of the wind. She won’t come now, he told himself. And then the worries crept in. Had something happened to her? Someone had seen her coming through the olive groves and betrayed her . . . He tried to shut out the dark thoughts, but they would not subside.
He must have drifted off into dreams because he awoke with a start at a loud sound close by and reached for his weapon.
“It is only me, Ugo,” said a gentle voice. “Do not be afraid.” And he watched her lantern bobbing toward him across the floor.
She placed the lantern on the bench and dropped to her knees beside him, her face glowing with joy in the candlelight. “You are awake and sitting up. That is such good news. I was so worried. Each time I came back I expected to find you dead. But I entrusted you to the care of Saint Rita.”
“Saint Rita? Who is she?”
“She is the patron saint of wounds.”
“This is the medal you tied to my wrist?”
“Of course,” she said. “She did well for you, did she not?”
“I’m feeling much better,” he said. “The fever has gone and the wound is beginning to heal. I can’t thank you enough, Sofia. You have taken such good care of me. You have even changed my clothes, like an infant.”
She smiled. “I could not let you lie there in such a state. I took your own clothes away and have cleaned them. I will bring them back next time.”
“And what I am wearing now belongs to Guido?”
“Of course. He is not here to use them. Rather you than the moths.”
He took her hand. “I will make all this up to you, I promise. When I am home I will send you money for new clothes, good clothes. Good soft wool.”
“Let us not talk of such things,” she said. “Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Nothing good, I feel. But eat. I’ve brought you soup. You must be hungry.”
She unwrapped the bowl and he ate it eagerly. It wasn’t much of a soup, really. Some cabbage and carrot leaves and a few beans. As if reading his thoughts, she said, “I know it is not much. We haven’t had any meat for days now. But it is warm.”
“You are too good to share what little you have with me,” he said.
She turned away. “I do not know how long I can keep on coming here,” she said. “The Germans were in my village today. You heard the church bells?”
“I thought it was Sunday.”
“No, each village rings the bell when Germans approach. That way the young men in the village know to go and hide in the woods, and the young women hide wherever they can. I was up in my attic all day hidden in an old wardrobe.” She paused, her eyes holding his, begging him to understand her. “These men are animals, Ugo,” she said. “The war has turned them into animals. We women fear for our honour every time they come near. They took the baker’s daughter once—a young girl of fifteen—and they violated her, one after the other. She has never been the same since. Her mind snapped at the horror of it.”
“How terrible. I’m so very sorry. I can assure you that British soldiers would not behave in that way.”
She gave a wonderfully Italian shrug. “Who can say? Some of these men were undoubtedly good boys at home. They helped the family in the fields, or they worked in banks and took girls dancing. But the war has changed them, ruined them.”
“Are the Germans still there?”
She shook her head. “No, saints be praised. They came to see if our village was a good place to wait out the winter. Their army has established a line just north of here, and they are looking for places where they can defend the roads from the south, from where the Allies will come. But I am glad to say that the views from our village did not meet their liking, and as we have nothing worth taking anymore, they left. Actually, that is not true. They took the mayor’s remaining chickens . . . may their souls rot in hell.”
A gust of wind swept in, making the candle in her lantern flicker and sending shadows dancing. “So you are safe for a while?”
“Maybe. We hope that they will have news of the Allies advancing and they will flee back to Germany and leave us in peace. But some say the Allies will not advance until the spring now. The snows will come and the roads will be impassable in the mountains.”
“That means I will be trapped here until the spring, too?”
“We do not often get snow. Our hills are not so high. But there are very high mountains between here and the coast. Maybe when your leg is strong enough we can find a way to get you to the south. We have no motorcars and no petrol, but there are farm carts, and those who grow produce take them to market.”
“What produce do they grow in the winter?” he asked.
“Root vegetables. Turnips. Potatoes. Cauliflower. Cabbage—although the Germans have helped themselves to all our cabbages. They love cabbage for some reason. I have some turnips and parsnips almost ready for harvest on my small plot of land.”
“That’s good. And how is the search for mushrooms going?”
She sighed. “I fear I cannot use that excuse any longer. There will be no more mushrooms now, and I think I have found every single one. I will have to sneak out in the middle of the night as I have just done.”
“I am feeling better now. Really, Sofia, you do not n
eed to come so often. If you could come once in a while and leave me a little something to eat, I will get by.”
“Don’t be silly. How will you get well and strong if you don’t eat? There is a new moon in the sky. Soon it will be easy to walk without a lantern, and I wear dark clothes. Nobody will see me, don’t worry.”
“What time is it, anyway?”
“After one. I could not leave before I was sure all the Germans had gone. They found some bottles of wine in the mayor’s cellar, and they stayed late, singing their stupid songs.”
“But you will get no sleep. You will make yourself ill.”
She patted his hand. “Don’t worry. Most nights the village is asleep by nine. It is only women and children. The men who remain go off with the partisans to do what harm they can to the Germans by night.”
“Are all the men part of the resistance?”
“Who knows? We do not ask and they do not tell us. Better that way if the Germans question anyone. All I can tell you is that partisans are active nearby and it is possible that our local men are involved. Not that there are many men in the village any longer. The few that are here were with the army in the south, fighting beside the Germans until we changed sides. Then they slipped away before the Germans could conscript them or send them to prison camps. They are brave boys, I am sure, although I am glad that they are off doing their destructive work. That Cosimo is a little too interested in me.”
“Cosimo?” His voice was harsh.
She nodded. “Some whisper that he is a leader in the partisans. No doubt a brave fellow. Not bad-looking. A powerful man. But I told him until my husband is declared dead, I am still married to him. All the same he has been hanging around lately. He brings us an occasional egg or flask of wine, and we don’t ask where he got it. But I think they are an excuse to visit me. So I am glad that he is away for days at a time.”
