The Battle of the Villa Fiorita

by Rumer Godden

  ‘English?’ asked Caddie, and desperately, ‘I’m English.’

  His blue eyes took in her pallid, unhappy face and red eyes and he stood up. He was big, burly, in his soutane, in fact anyone’s idea of a fat priest, but there was more to him than that; a calmness about him, something strong. He looks as if he could tell you things, thought Caddie, and now, ‘English?’ he said gently. ‘I speak a little English.’ He said ‘spik’ and ‘leetle’, but it was such a relief that, for about the sixth time that day, Caddie began to cry.

  This time she could not stop, and at last he took her hand and led her out of the church, bending his knee to the altar – Caddie bent hers too – and then out through the courtyard, empty now, and up the stair. She had guessed right, it led to his house. At the top was a little piazza shaded with oleanders and an olive tree. There were geraniums in tubs, a hen and chickens scratching, a hutch full of rabbits, and a vine making an arbour for a table and chairs.

  The front door had two bells, one marked ‘notturno’. Even through her tears Caddie wondered why anyone should want a priest in the night; then he took her into a narrow waiting-room with a marble floor, a table covered with oilcloth, some hard chairs, a crucifix, and a painting of the Pope. He made Caddie sit down. ‘Subito, subito,’ he said, and disappeared.

  It was as quiet and peaceful as it was poor and bare; anything less like the vicarage at Whitcross it would be hard to imagine. Caddie tried to dry her eyes but her handkerchief was a wet ball. At last she gave up, put her head down on the oilcloth table and sobbed.

  ‘But, my dear little girl, I cannot make your mother a Catholic.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ The tears began to stream again and Father Rossi said hastily, ‘Drink your coffee.’

  It was a miniature cup, the sort of coffee, thick and black, that Rob drank while they ate ices. An old woman, ‘My mother,’ said Father Rossi, had brought it on a little tray. Caddie found it odd that an arciprete should have a mother. ‘Did you think he had fallen from the sky?’ Hugh said scornfully when she told him of this, but the arciprete’s mother was kind. ‘Un’ inglesina,’ she said softly and touched Caddie’s cheek. The kind gesture unfortunately set Caddie off again. The old woman patted her, making clucking noises of concern, and hurried out and, ‘Drink,’ said Father Rossi. ‘Drink before you try to talk.’ The coffee was so strong that it took Caddie’s breath away but it stopped the tears.

  ‘Now you can tell me,’ said Father Rossi, and Caddie began:

  ‘I … I …’, but it was difficult to put into words and she said, ‘Oh, I wish I had brought Pia.’

  ‘Pia? That sounds Italian. Who is Pia?’ and he said, ‘You must speak slowly if you want me to understand. Now tell me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ but he was not an arciprete for nothing, and slowly, bit by bit, with a gentle question here and there, he drew the whole story out of Caddie. But it was no good.

  ‘My dear little girl, I cannot make your mother a Catholic.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Only God can do that.’

  ‘Then why won’t He?’

  Father Rossi shook his head. ‘That is not for us to know. You must pray and I will pray.’ That did not seem to Caddie a hopeful answer but he got up. ‘Come, I will put you on your bus, and as soon as you get home you will ask Celestina – I know her, she is a good woman, Celestina – to give you a strong soup. The little Pia too. This, to starve, is not the way.’

  ‘What is the way?’ asked Caddie.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ and he sighed again. The old woman brought him a flat black hat that looked as if it were made of beaver – Caddie had once had a beaver bonnet – and they went out into the sunshine.

  They were waiting at the bus stop, the blue arrows on a yellow sign that said ‘Fermata’, when the Mercedes came along the road, Rob and Fanny coming back from lunch. Before she thought, Caddie had waved. Rob braked with a screech of tyres and pulled up, just past the stop. Fanny was out of the car in a moment.

  ‘Caddie! Has something happened?’ But Father Rossi stepped in front of Caddie.

  ‘Indeed it has happened.’ The passengers waiting for the bus all looked; people in the road paused, seeing their padre with the English signora. ‘You are Candida’s mother?’

  Rob had come up. ‘I’m afraid, Father Rossi, that Caddie has given you a wrong idea,’ he said.

  As Rob knew everyone, he seemed to know the arciprete, but here was one person who did not smile at him.

  ‘Signor, she has given me a singularly clear idea,’ said Father Rossi.

  ‘We are not Catholics and have no right to bother you.’

  ‘Every child has the right to bother me.’ Father Rossi kept his hand on Caddie’s shoulder. In his long soutane he seemed much larger than Rob and his voice rang down the road. A small crowd had begun to gather. This, clearly, was no ordinary conversation.

  ‘Look at this child,’ said Father Rossi. ‘See her state.’

  Fanny’s face was flooded with a burning colour.

  ‘See her state, and she tells me there are two of them. Two little girls, starving, to bring you to your senses.’

  Someone in the knot of people was translating for the others. The petrol girl and two mechanics had come from the garage, people from the shops, some of the tourists had stopped. There were murmurs, of admiration for Caddie, of indignation against Fanny and Rob. Father Rossi heard the murmurs and he sank his voice as he said to Fanny, ‘You are not a Catholic, Signora, but I would suggest to you that you should go into my church, kneel down there, and think what you are doing.’

  Fanny took a step back against Rob.

  ‘Kneel down there and think before it is too late,’ said Father Rossi.

  ‘Caddie, get into the car at once. At once!’ said Rob.

  She was frightened by the silence. No one spoke. Rob drove so fast that, alone in the back, she was bounced up and down and flung from side to side. Fanny sat with her head bent; Rob looked straight ahead. He drew up at the villa gates but did not turn in.

  ‘I’m going on to Riva,’ he said to Fanny. ‘Will you come?’ She shook her head and he leaned past her to open the door; before she got out he put his hand under her chin and turned her face up to look at him. Caddie expected him to say something momentous but all he said was, ‘I have to telephone Renato and get some money.’

  Caddie could see that Fanny’s lips were shaking but she said nothing and Rob let her go. Then he reached back, opened the door for Caddie and said, ‘Get out,’ as briefly as he had said, ‘Get in.’ Caddie understood that she was beyond the family pale. He slammed the door and drove away in a cloud of dust.

  Fanny went into the house. In this long afternoon her pain had grown worse and now she knew what it was. She went into the bathroom, came out, passing Caddie on the landing without a word. Caddie heard her opening drawers, moving about the bedroom, but then there was silence. Cautiously she pushed the door. It was open and she looked in. Fanny was lying face downwards across the bed.

  In Riva the paths along the harbours were deserted. On this uncommonly hot and heavy afternoon people were sleeping or had gone to the beaches, or taken refuge in the cafés. Rob left the car and sat down on a bench in the shade of the willows, but the scene in Malcesine still danced before his eyes. He could not even smoke but sat, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, staring at the dust, dust pocked with little stones. He saw Caddie’s face. Fanny’s. ‘Poor little toad,’ he muttered. ‘Poor little toad,’ though which of them he meant he did not know. Perhaps he meant himself. Poor toad. Hugh, Caddie, Pia, piling things one on another; it was too much. When he thought of the hunger strike his lips twitched, as they twitched when he thought of Hugh and Giulietta, but behind lay an immense aching. He felt Pia’s lightness, her small bones, under his hand; it had been like beating a bird – contrary to what he had told Fanny, Pia had never been beaten – and indignation came up in him. They should never have been drawn into this, he thought
, then he remembered that it was he who had drawn them in and he groaned aloud. Hugh and Pia were bad enough, but when it was Caddie the whole problem suddenly grew deeper. Caddie, thought Rob, brought you into real truth. I knew that the first time I saw her on the terrace, that little bungling ignorant girl, and – they won the first day they came, thought Rob.

  How long he sat on the bench he did not know. The air cooled a little, the town woke to life. A sudden puff of wind sent the willow fronds streaming and blew the dust. Far off, towards the Brenner, thunder rolled, so distant that it sounded like far-off drums. Then it was still. It has not grown much cooler, Rob thought.

  At last he sat up, lit a cigarette and smoked. The tenseness was gone; he was very thoughtful. He lit another, pitched it away, stood up and shook his shoulders to settle his coat. Then he walked away to the post office and the bank.

  ‘Mother.’ Caddie felt she had stayed at the bedroom door for an hour. ‘Mother.’

  No answer.

  ‘Mother, aren’t you feeling well?’

  ‘Mother!’ It was a wail.

  At that Fanny looked up. Something of Caddie’s bewilderment and remorse reached her. Eleven-twelve is a painful age to be, thought Fanny. Too young to understand, too old to be unconscious and, ‘You’re not a criminal,’ said Fanny. ‘You needn’t look like that,’ but Fanny could not spare much pity. Her skin was clammy, there were dark rings under her eyes and she was full of pain, pain and disappointment. That secret hope was gone. I was late, that was all. Thank God I didn’t say anything to Rob. It was only that I was nearly three weeks late. ‘Run away,’ said Fanny to Caddie.

  ‘But Mother …’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Caddie, leave me alone. I must be alone!’ and Fanny got up and ran downstairs into the garden.

  Caddie followed and watched.

  At Stebbings, when anything upset Fanny, and she had to try to control herself, if Lady Candida had driven her beyond bounds, or there was some bad news, or when the vet had put Bracken, Danny’s predecessor, to sleep, Fanny had had a way of going into the garden, walking up and down there, under the familiar trees, past all her flowers, touching them, as if to touch nature steadied her, brought her anger or grief into proportion. She was doing that now. As Caddie watched her, Fanny stood by the wistaria, drawing its tassels across her hand. She explored with her finger the split bark of an olive tree, avoided the magnolia where Celestina’s birds were hung, but stopped by a lilac, bent to pinch a spike of rosemary. Yet she seemed not to be able to calm herself; even her shoulders looked hunched as if they had had a blow. She went on walking, touching. Caddie could not bear to watch her any more. What had she precipitated by going to see Father Rossi? At last she wandered miserably down to the boathouse.

  The Fortuna, her mainsail furled and tied, was in the little harbour, tied up alongside the old rowing-boat. There was no sign of Mario, or of Hugh, thought Caddie at first. Then, walking out on the jetty, she stopped. There were voices, children’s voices, laughing and talking. They sounded as if they came from the back of the boathouse; and through the wistaria on the boathouse fence, its twisting stems and flowers, Caddie caught sight of something cherry red; Pia’s dress.

  It was odd for Pia to be in the boathouse. Caddie stepped nearer. She had to step nearer again to believe her own eyes. Behind Mario’s room in the boathouse was a small veranda where nets and oars were kept. It had a bench and a table. There, hidden from the villa by the wistaria, the line of nets, Caddie could see Beppino and Gianna and, sitting at the table in that immaculate dress, Pia. On the bench beside her was Hugh and on the table were bottles of orange soda with straws, plates, tubs of ice-cream and Pia was, ‘Eating,’ breathed Caddie. ‘Eating!’ In one hand Pia held a roll, split by pink ham, and as Caddie watched she took an enormous bite; in the other was a cardboard spoon for the ice-cream. Hugh was watching and laughing! Dumb with amazement, Caddie stood there until the last of the roll disappeared into Pia’s mouth and a tongue, small as a kitten’s, came out to flick the last crumbs inside. She took another roll. Now the plate was empty and Pia commanded Beppino, ‘Va’ comperare due altri panini con prosciutto ed un altro gelato,’ which Caddie knew meant more ham rolls and another ice. She saw Hugh pull his wallet out of his shorts pocket and give a note to Beppino. He was paying Beppino to go and fetch them. Buying panini with my money, my Topaz money! It was the final insult. Caddie tore in at the boathouse gate, up the veranda steps, and launched herself at Pia.

  The table was pushed aside. The plates, bottles, spoons were on the floor and in a moment Pia was down, Caddie pummelling her with both fists, banging her head among the streams of orange soda.

  The tumult came into the villa garden, Pia’s shrieks and Beppino’s and Gianna’s. Their father and mother ran across the road from the trattoria, and down the back lane, and the mother added her scolding to the pandemonium when she saw the broken plates and bottles. Celestina and Giulietta came running from the villa, Giacomino walked after them, and all the while Hugh, trying to catch Caddie’s fists, shouted to her to let Pia go. It was that English, ‘Let go, Caddie! Caddie, let her go!’ that brought Fanny running too.

  ‘Caddie! Caddie! Caddie!’ shouted Fanny as she ran past the wistaria fence. Caddie looked up, and in that second’s pause Hugh plucked her away, holding her with her wrists twisted so that she screamed, while the trattoria father picked up Pia.

  ‘Caddie! Have you gone mad?’ panted Fanny.

  ‘She was eating,’ screamed Caddie incoherently. ‘Eating! I think she has been eating all the time.’

  ‘Hush, Caddie. Hush.’ But Caddie would not hush. She bellowed.

  ‘Hugh! Hugh was helping her … helping her eat and they never told me … It was my money … my Topaz money.’

  Hugh had loosed his hold of her wrists and she was rubbing their hurt redness in an anguish of sobs. He stood by, sullen and defiant as always when caught out. Pia, trying to look unmoved, was wiping her dress with a napkin, picking ice-cream and bits of ham out of her hair.

  A knot of villagers had gathered, amazed by this sudden outbreak of the English. Beppino and Gianna had taken refuge by their mother, and all of them, with Celestina and Giulietta, talked in torrents. Only Mario, who had come back from the village, kept away at the far end of the boathouse beach.

  ‘Helping her eat, with my money.’

  ‘Is this true, Hugh?’ asked Fanny.

  ‘I helped Pia once or twice,’ muttered Hugh.

  ‘But … how was it Celestina didn’t know? If you got things from the trattoria?’

  ‘We didn’t get them; Beppino sneaked them out to us. I paid him,’ said Hugh virtuously.

  ‘With my money. My Topaz money.’

  ‘Hush, Caddie. Hugh, you did this, while Pia let us think she was on strike.’

  ‘Well, no one but Caddie would be silly enough to strike properly.’

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ broke in Caddie. ‘Why did you shut me out?’

  At that Pia lifted her head. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to pretend,’ she said, and, even in her woe, Caddie knew that this was true; but it still seemed to her the depths of treachery for Hugh to do this. Her own brother! Hugh! Caddie thought she had exhausted all her tears when she was with Father Rossi, but now she sobbed as if her heart would break.

  ‘Is anything else going to happen today?’ said Fanny. To Hugh she said, ‘I think you are disgusting. Pia, tell the trattoria people I will pay for the broken plates and the bottles, and tell Celestina I want to speak to her. Now, all of you, come with me.’ She put her arm round Caddie and took her away.

  14

  ‘Very well,’ said Fanny. ‘Very well.’

  They were sitting round the dining-room table eating, and drinking tea. Fanny had made the tea herself, while at her orders Celestina lightly boiled eggs and made hot toast. Fanny had buttered the toast, cut it into small pieces and broken the eggs over it. For a moment, it was the old Fanny presiding over the tea or break
fast table at Stebbings. ‘You must be careful after so long. Eat slowly or you will have a pain.’

  Ironically, now she could eat, Caddie did not want to. ‘I shall be sick again,’ she said, but Fanny coaxed her and slowly it went down, a bit of toast, a lick of egg, though the tea was best of all. It revived her more than Father Rossi’s coffee, and, though she still felt sodden and salted with tears, her eyes sore, her head stupid, pride began to stiffen her. I starved, thought Caddie, really starved, and I was the only one. She was able to sit up, hold her head up with Hugh and Pia.

  Then, ‘Very well,’ said Fanny. Her face looked as if it were made of paper, with two holes for eyes. ‘Very well. When you have finished tea, we will go upstairs and pack.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Caddie.

  ‘We will go to a hotel for tonight,’ Fanny went on. ‘We – you Hugh, and Caddie and I. We will send a telegram to Gwyneth and tomorrow I will take you back. We can probably get on one of the planes. I expect Rob will take you, Pia, back to Rome.’

  ‘Do you mean you will come back and live …’ Hugh could not go on. It took Caddie to blurt out, ‘With us and Father?’

  ‘Perhaps – if he will have me.’

  Caddie did not like the look of this Fanny and, ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, but Pia pounced.

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Fanny.

  ‘What will … he say?’ asked Hugh.

  ‘Rob? He has gone to telephone Milan. I expect about the same thing,’ said Fanny with a wry smile.

  ‘But you said nothing to him,’ said Caddie.

  ‘Rob and I don’t have to say things.’

  ‘Then it’s my fault,’ said Caddie.

  ‘You can’t say “fault”, when it was right.’

  ‘Was it right?’

  ‘Perfectly right.’

  Hugh, Caddie, and Pia looked at one another. Had they won the battle? Then why did it feel so flat? As if everything had collapsed? Hugh went to Fanny and put his arm round her, but he went mechanically and, ‘Please don’t touch me,’ said Fanny in a voice she had never used to Hugh, and he stood helplessly by her chair. It was as if they had been dolls, worked by strings; the strings had suddenly been let go and they were left limp. Pia alone sat erect in her chair. At last she said, ‘I thought you were going to pack.’