by Rumer Godden
‘She is going to pack.’
All of them jumped. Rob was standing in the doorway. Coming in from the terrace in his rope-soled shoes he had made no sound. How long had he been there? He was an intruder, yet at once the strings were gathered up, were taut and everything began to move.
‘She is going to pack.’ Rob came round to Fanny’s chair. Hugh moved out of the way. ‘Pack, but not to go with you, because we are leaving,’ said Rob.
‘Leaving?’
‘Yes. Fanny and I.’
‘Leaving – us?’ That was Caddie.
‘Leaving you,’ said Rob. ‘You fought us; now you can take the consequences.’ Fanny made a little sound of protest but he silenced her. ‘You will be quite all right with Celestina until they come for you.’
‘Come for us?’ It seemed that all they could do was to repeat what Rob said.
‘I spoke to Norma on the telephone,’ he said to Pia. ‘Miss Benson is coming to fetch you; she will be here tomorrow morning. Hugh and Caddie will have to wait until Friday or Saturday. Colonel Clavering will probably not get here till then.’
‘Darrell coming here?’ Fanny sounded dazed.
‘I expect so. He must think nothing of travelling. Anyway he will make his own arrangements. They will be quite all right with Celestina. I have given her money,’ and to Fanny he said, ‘Renato has found us a flat in Milan. That’s why I was so long; I had to wait until he rang me. It’s his cousin’s. We will move in there; a service flat with not a single inch of room for children.’
‘But … Mother has promised.’ Caddie had risen, holding to her chair.
‘Promised,’ said Pia, and to Rob, ‘You heard her; she promised.’
‘Under duress, which is a kind of blackmail,’ said Rob, ‘something you must not apply. That is what you have been using, all of you. In law, a promise made under duress doesn’t bind you, bind anyone. Fanny hasn’t promised. I see your strike is over,’ said Rob, looking at the tea-table, and to Pia, ‘I hear you are a blackleg. Caddie, you have been very brave and I respect you, but, you see, children cannot be allowed to dictate, or govern. Some day you will come and visit us again – but when we ask you. Have you finished tea, Fanny?’
Fanny did not speak or move; he bent, put his hands under her elbows and, as if she were powerless, lifted her out of her chair and turned her towards the stairs.
‘You are kidnapping me,’ she said with a breathless little laugh.
‘I am not,’ said Rob and let her go. ‘You are coming, that is all.’ Then he held out his hand: ‘Come, dear. Come with me.’ Fanny put her hand in his and, leaving the children, they went upstairs.
15
‘Tortellini,’ said Celestina. ‘Cannelloni.’ She knew Caddie liked cannelloni best. ‘Feesh. Pollo arrosto, roast cheeken. Patate. Asparagi.’
Celestina meant to be kind, but Caddie was not listening even to this recital of delights; her ears were strained to what was happening upstairs. ‘They are packing; they are really going,’ that beat in her head. Giulietta had carried all the cases up. ‘We are defeated.’ Caddie had wandered into the kitchen, ‘to be with someone,’ she could have said, and she felt cold, which was curious because the air, with Celestina’s cooker going full-blast, was hot and close.
It was growing dark. If she had not been so shocked and numbed, Caddie would have thought it was early to be so dark, the kitchen clock only said seven o’clock; all the same, the darkness seemed fitting – ‘It soon much rain,’ said Celestina, glancing out of the window – fitting that even the sky should weep on this dreadful evening. Caddie herself had no more tears. She was simply limp, cold, defeated. We had won – her eyelids quivered – won, and then it was taken away. She could hear footsteps going backwards and forwards upstairs; it was evidently a thorough packing. She could, too, hear Rob’s voice, still authoritative. It seemed he was guarding Fanny. Even when he sorted his papers in the study, and that took some time, he kept her there with him. Perhaps, thought Caddie, I shall never be with Mother again. It was melodramatic but it might be the truth.
Hugh and Pia had disappeared. As far as Caddie was concerned they could disappear. She did not want to see either of them again, and, sitting at the new kitchen table, it came to her that she had lost everything now: lost Topaz, lost Hugh, lost the battle; in a few minutes she would lose Fanny; everyone, everything, she really cared for; she was Caddie alone, with nothing and no one to hold on to. She would always be alone now, and it was then that Caddie made a startling discovery: she was alone, defeated, she had lost everything – and she was still herself, Caddie, still all right. Then, it doesn’t matter what happens to you, thought Caddie. You go on.
Again it felt as if a tight skin had parted in her mind, a tight skin that had been fear, or anger, jealousy, misery. Now it had broken or dissolved, letting her escape into a new dimension, bigger than herself; the same bigness she had glimpsed that night in Milan; love, music, trouble, they all seemed to give you this power.
As if she were an old, old lady she seemed to look back down the years; well, I have grown a lot in these few weeks, thought Caddie, more, she could guess, than some people do in their whole lives. It had been painful but it was a steady growing, and it seemed to her there had already been milestones: when Hugh went to school and she was rended out of their happy unconsciousness – I was a little little girl before that – and she remembered how young the other girls going back to St Anne’s had seemed to her as she sat in the Victoria Station refreshment room. Then Topaz, when she had gone into another happy state and been rended out of that; she still winced even now from thinking of it. It was like breathing out of one eggshell into another, eggs and eggs, thought Caddie wearily. Then she remembered that moment in Milan, at La Scala, ‘the Gilda moment’ as she called it in her own mind, which seemed to gild it for ever like the angels’ wings, when, as a frightened little chick might in a maelstrom, she, Caddie had lifted her head – and seen, with sudden clarity. That, she thought, was the most important moment of my life, ‘and I have known moments,’ she could have said, ‘though I’m still not twelve.’ Now, in this one, frightening as it was, she was not afraid. She recognized it. It was only another breaking; some more growing. In this one day she, Caddie, had been rent, hurt, betrayed, yet here she was in the evening, sitting in the kitchen, still me, thought Caddie.
There were even compensations: the kitchen was vivid with life and there was a sense of drama as if she were a heroine. Beppino and Gianna had brought over the bill for the broken plates and bottles, and stared at her with round eyes. The fame of her going to the arciprete had spread now to the village, the trattoria knew that Rob and Fanny were leaving, and Beppino and Gianna, in admiration and sympathy, had brought a bunch of oranges and lemons as well. Celestina squeezed two of the oranges for her; ‘Gandhi, he live three weeks on oranga juice.’ the oranges were blood ones and the juice was pomegranate red. ‘Red for martyrs,’ Pia would have said. Caddie also had some salami on a slice of bread. In Celestina’s opinion she should have been fed every few minutes, and instead of Fanny’s paltry toast and egg, Celestina would have given Caddie and Pia a good hot plateful of pasta to lay the gas. It stood to reason, thought Celestina, that an empty stomach must be full of gas.
She was shocked to her simple soul by Rob’s and Fanny’s leaving. If they had to go, why not the children with them? Celestina had always taken it for granted that the more children there were the better, but, as she said to Giulietta, the English were unnatural: sending their children to bed early as if they were ill when they were perfectly well: to boarding school as if they were orphans – questa povera piccola Caddie went to boarding school: not allowing them a glass of wine or Martini. Celestina, from her year in London, knew the habits of the English and she was full of pity for Caddie.
A gust of wind shook the house with a drawn-out whining; the shutters rattled. Next moment a scurry of drops hit the window-panes:
‘Il mio bucato, i miei panni, le mi
e lenzuola!’ Giulietta cried. ‘My washing!’ With Beppino and Gianna she rushed out to the garden. Caddie ran after them, but such a wind met her on the terrace that she could hardly stand up. Her hair was whipped into her eyes, her skirt wrapped round her. The whole lake and sky were changed; the mountains blotted out by driving cloud and rain, the sky dark. Then there came two such thunderclaps that Gianna shrieked and she and Beppino cowered down with their hands over their eyes.
‘Stupidi, paurosi, vigliacchi! Help me!’ screamed Giulietta.
As Caddie ran to the washing-line she could see that far over the lake the water was rough and white, the wind whipping it up into waves; their spray was flung high above the rocks. A gust came from the other side as the wind hit the mountain, a blast that caught Caddie and almost spun her round. With it came more thunder, so close that it might have been in the garden itself, and each clap seemed to roll from mountain to mountain across the lake. Caddie helped Giulietta to struggle with the billowing sheets, with pillowcases full of wind. Wet towels lashed their faces, table-cloths were torn out of their hands. By the time they had gathered up all the washing they were breathless, sweatingly hot, their faces smarting from the driving rain, their hair and clothes wet. As they reached the kitchen door they saw Mario, his coat over his head, running up from the boathouse.
‘We must wait awhile,’ said Rob.
‘I don’t want to wait,’ said Fanny. ‘I can’t.’
‘It will be over in a few minutes. It always is,’ said Rob. ‘It would be silly to go now. You would get blown and wet, all the luggage soaked.’
They were both ready, the cases packed. Fanny was in the travelling suit she had worn when she came, the small soft hat. Her bag and gloves were on the bed, and, ‘Don’t let’s wait for anything,’ she begged. The hand on which Rob’s ruby shone was clenched so that the knuckles stood out.
‘Darling, don’t be so tense. This will all soon be as if it had never happened.’
‘I can’t believe that.’
‘It will.’
‘Listen to the wind,’ said Fanny and shuddered.
‘It’s only wind,’ said Rob. ‘A storm; it will blow itself out – so will this. Let’s be sensible. They put up a brave fight. Well, they have lost, that’s all. When we are married everything will settle down. Stop thinking,’ he commanded. ‘Come. I’m going to get you a drink,’ but there was a clap of thunder and another so near it sounded over the bedroom. Then the window burst open, letting in a gale of wind and rain, as Celestina wrenched open the door. Fanny sprang to close the window and, ‘Che cosa succede?’ said Rob sharply. ‘Cosa?’
Celestina stood against the door panting for breath. She must have run up the stairs, thought Fanny, trying to hold the window, and for Celestina to run was no light thing. Behind, on the landing, was Giacomino, Giacomino who never came into their part of the house, and Mario, and Giulietta, whose dark eyes were frightened. Beppino and Gianna wriggled themselves under Celestina’s arm and Fanny saw Caddie pressed against the wall.
‘Ma che diavolo succede?’ said Rob again in English, ‘I told you, the Signora was not to be worried.’
‘Signorino Hugh,’ Celestina managed to get out, and behind her Giulietta shouted above the wind, ‘Hugh! Pia!’
‘Hugh and Pia. What about Hugh and Pia?’ Rob had reached behind Fanny, pushed and bolted the window shut. ‘What about Hugh and Pia?’
Mario’s deep voice spoke from the landing and Fanny saw Rob’s face change.
‘What is it? What is it?’ Her voice screamed like a sheet tearing. ‘What is it?’ and Rob said, ‘Hugh and Pia have taken the Fortuna and gone sailing.’
16
‘They will come back,’ said Rob.
‘In this?’
‘They may have been carried over to the opposite shore. They are probably in Limone by now. They are all right, Fanny. I’m sure they are.’
‘Why didn’t Mario stop them? Go after them?’
‘He didn’t see them go. He had taken the outboard motor to the garage. Even if he had seen them, even if the outboard had been working, a sail in this wind would be faster than any motor; but Hugh would have got the sail down,’ insisted Rob. ‘He would have had that much sense.’
‘If he could get it down.’ Fanny’s lips were as stiff as if they were frozen. ‘Listen to the wind.’ With her hands over her ears, she tried to shut out its whine, but she could feel the whole villa shaking.
They had all come down to the drawing-room. Celestina with Giulietta, Giacomino, Mario, and the trattoria children, stood a little away in a silent group. Gianna was crying against Celestina’s apron. Celestina and Giulietta were both praying. The arciprete had told Caddie to pray and now she tried to, looking up at the angel she had given to Hugh; its wings shone in the gloom, but of course it still had its painted smile on its face.
Rob was walking up and down. ‘Damned young fool! Couldn’t he have seen? Mario was away for just half an hour. Half an hour! God! When they get back I will beat the life out of them.’
Fanny gave a little moan. Rob came to her, knelt beside her and took her hands down from her face. ‘They are all right, Fanny. I know they are,’ but she could feel him trembling. ‘Give it a few minutes,’ he said. ‘If we can’t sight them then, I will start the alarm.’
In those first days at the villa, when she and Rob were alone, Fanny had welcomed the wind – though perhaps I should have welcomed anything, she had to admit. Then, its blustering and shaking had only made them seem more shut away and safe, made this room, with its books and flowers, gilt and paintings, the big olive fire, seem more theirs and they more close. Now it seemed they were paying the price of those days. It was as if the whole villa were exposed to the storm, beaten under the wind, forcing her and Rob apart.
‘I want Father,’ said Caddie suddenly. The whispering prayers, Gianna’s snivelling, above all Rob’s pacing, were too much for Caddie’s nerves. Father would not have let them behave like that. ‘I wish Father were here.’
‘Hush, Caddie.’ But Fanny, too, wished there were someone rock-like, somebody English, thought Fanny instinctively, not sharing but in command. Darrell would not have trembled, she thought, and hated herself for that; she pushed the thought away. Rob was doing all that he could.
‘We shall have to wait until it clears. Nothing could put out in this,’ he said again and again, but after a few minutes he could not wait. He fetched a coat and put it over his head and shoulders.
‘But where will you go? Where can you go?’
‘At least I can get to Malcesine. Fanny, when it drops, go over to the Hotel Lydia and wait. I will ring you in half an hour to see if there’s a sign.’
‘And if not, what can you do?’
‘Get boats out. Tell the police. Mario, Giacomino, come and help me with the garage doors.’
‘Signore, La Fortuna è una piccola imbarcazione, un semplice dinghy.’
‘Sta zitto, chetati,’ said Rob.
‘What does he say?’ Fanny’s eyes went from Mario to Rob, to Mario.
‘What we know already: that the Fortuna is only a small dinghy.’
‘Non è possibile che possa sopravvivere a tutto ciò.’
‘Basta,’ said Rob curtly. ‘Come along.’
Fanny ran to the upstairs windows, Caddie after her. They stood at one window after another, trying to see through the rain, looking at the threshing sea of olives, the cypresses almost bent double. The storm in La Scala wasn’t real, thought Caddie. The waves on the rocks sent up clouds of spray and as far as their eyes could see was tumbling water.
‘You would never find a sail in all that white,’ said Caddie.
‘There wouldn’t be a sail by now,’ but Fanny did not say it.
The wind dropped. Abruptly, as if someone had reached out a giant hand and turned it off, it ceased to blow, the rain to flail. The cypresses stood erect, the olives ceased to thresh, though they quivered and dripped. Low down, in the sky above the mountain,
the sun sent a watery beam among the clouds before it sank out of sight. Fanny and Caddie came out on the landing balcony. The garage doors were open, Rob had gone. Mario had run to the village, Giacomino was out on the headland scanning the lake. Fanny and Caddie came down and, with Celestina and Giulietta, stood out on the terrace. In the growing dusk they could see that the white crests of the waves were flattening out into giant rollers. They strained their eyes, Giulietta shading hers with her hand, Fanny and Celestina alternately using the binoculars. Once Celestina shouted and pointed to a dark blob in the water, then they saw it roll. ‘Una latta di benzina!’ cried Giulietta. It was a petrol drum. There was no sign and, ‘I’m going to the hotel,’ said Fanny. ‘To telephone. Vado a telefonare.’ That was an Italian phrase she had learnt in the days of Saladin.
‘Si. Si.’ Fanny made Celestina understand that Mario was to go down the lake road, Giacomino up.
‘Look. Ask. Everywhere.’
‘Si. Si,’ said Celestina.
The news had run like wildfire through the village and now the couple from the alimentari came running in to tell that two carpenters, working in a half-finished lakeside canteen, had seen a sailing boat just before the storm, making towards Riva.
‘They could never reach it,’ said Fanny.
‘On Garda many, many people drown,’ said Celestina with gusto, and she went on, in her mixture of broken English, German, and Italian, with tale after tale.
‘Five fishermen,’ said Celestina, ‘village fishermen, drown fifty metres from the villa. Here in the villa we hear their cries for help, “Aiuto! Aiuto!” and we can do nothing. Nothing! It grow dark, the cries go fainter, then only the women, praying in the garden, sobbing. All drown,’ said Celestina.
