by Sally Wragg
She could see Freddie, kneeling by the wall at the bottom end of a field where he’d just herded the sheep out to pasture. Once upon a time, the sight of her husband going about his tasks around the farm would have had her taking to her heels, a giddy young girl again, nothing in her head but flying into his open arms. And what would happen if she did that now, she wondered and, imagining his surprise, shock even, restraining the impulse; sorry then that she did, thus denying them a moment of happiness when there’d been so little in their lives of late. At her approach, Freddie stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees and frowning.
‘I’ve brought your tea,’ she began, handing him the flask sedately and as befitting a matron of her advanced years. She smiled up at him. The years had been kind to Freddie Hamilton; his thick, curly hair still without a trace of grey, the craggy features below it, filled with the same restless energy which had seen him through both the war and all the trials and tribulations of farming life.
‘Thanks, love,’ he said but his voice so low and devoid of emotion, once again she was left wondering how this constraint had happened between them and, worse, how she was ever going to break through it.
They loved each other. There must be a way.
‘Freddie, we need to talk!’ she blurted out.
Not even bothering to argue with her, he nodded uneasily, his gaze sliding past her to the wall he was in the process of rebuilding. Good Derbyshire stone of varying sizes and heaviness which he was fitting together with the skill he brought to all the tasks around the farm. Ordered things he knew how to manage as, of late, Ursula sensed he’d known so little what to do with his wife.
‘You mean about the baby. . . .’ he muttered, frowning.
‘I mean about the baby,’ she agreed, as if it had once been a living, breathing entity when the reality was, other than in leaving a heart still recoiling and arms aching its loss, it had never existed at all.
‘You think I blame you?’
‘But you must, a little,’ she argued, amazed and a little angry he was even trying to deny it.
‘I don’t blame you, Ursula,’ he returned. ‘I never have. If you really want to know, despite what the doctors say, I happen to think it’s my fault. And . . . and in any case. . . . It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. . . .’
‘We still have to live with it!’ she finished fiercely, wondering next what difference this made to the equation. A lot, she guessed. There was a gap in their lives; a gaping hole neither had the slightest idea how to fill. Hopes, plans for the future, all turned to ashes.
‘It isn’t easy,’ he muttered, stating the obvious.
‘But I never said it was!’ she wailed, wretchedly aware that this was what always happened. Round and round they went in ever decreasing circles, never seeming to reach a point where they were any further forward. Wouldn’t it be better to say nothing, to put it behind them and concentrate instead on all the good things they had going, like each other and the life they’d built together at the farm?
‘If the war hadn’t happened, perhaps it wouldn’t matter so much,’ she said, her face glowing with the earnestness that once he’d said he loved her for. ‘Or, at least, not as much as it did?’ she added, seeing now the dark circles shadowing his eyes. He looked tired, worn out in fact and she chastized herself that she’d only just noticed.
‘The war was a long time ago.’
‘Father says there’ll be another before the decade’s out.’
He winced as if she’d struck him. ‘There you go, then,’ he answered sharply. ‘What a good job we’re not bringing any bairns into the world. . . .’
‘Is that what you really think?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . . Oh Lord, I don’t know, Ursula.’
He stood running a hand through his hair but then, taking her by surprise and before she could stop him, he pulled her into his arms. As if he thought that way he could settle their problems and if only it was so simple! Relieved to give in, she leaned in, resting her head against his chest and absorbing the peace that always came when he held her this way. A comforting aroma of smoke still clung to his clothes from burning the stubble earlier that morning, reminding her of the passing seasons, with better days surely bound to return.
‘We have each other,’ he soothed her, stroking her hair, kissing the top of her head, tricking her there was nothing wrong after all, and that they’d only to work through this as they had everything else in their married life.
Thankful to be out of the wall of heat generated by what had proved a day’s relentless sunshine, Hettie Loxley slipped into Venice’s Basilica only to discover that she’d merely exchanged one extraordinary set of circumstances for another. Her gasp of pleasure was involuntary. Where she’d expected coolness and darkness, she was met instead with a wall of shimmering light, a glittering, shifting mosaic almost blinding her, trammelling her senses and stamping on them the indelible impression that she’d inadvertently stumbled into another, and impossibly even more overpowering sun. She stood, craning her head upwards towards the glittering gold of the high-domed ceiling, making a mental note meanwhile to remember every detail to tell Bill when she got home, surely the highlight of this tour so far. Unexpectedly, she found herself blessing her grandmother Katherine for forcing her to leave Loxley, particularly when she so much hadn’t wanted to go.
She was mortified Bill wasn’t here to share it with her and when she had so much to tell him. The thought brought the first cloud scudding into the sunshine of the young girl’s so unexpected happiness. Since she’d left for this tour, she’d never heard a word from Bill, though she’d written several times and left a forwarding address, even in desperation writing to her mother and grandmother, hinting one or the other might jog the young man’s mind to write and at least tell her what was going on in his life. What could she conclude other than he didn’t care, that he’d gone to college only to forget her, precisely as she’d always known he would! Curiously deflated at the thought, she slipped upstairs to the Basilica’s famous bronze horses, as much a symbol of Venice as the winged lion of St Mark’s, so overcome by their power and antiquity, she stood looking as if mesmerized and could hardly bear to drag herself away.
Still, drag herself away she must and if only because time was passing. Outside, it was still too hot, like walking through thick, golden honey. With a happily vague sense of direction, she set off back towards the Hotel Duono Palace where she and Dizzy had booked for three nights, plunging into the labyrinth of narrow streets she’d already discovered full of enticing little shops and cafés, whose owners always had a ready smile for the young English girl, so cheerfully passing through.
Unforgivably perhaps when she knew Dizzy would be waiting, she gave in to her impulses, taking the time to browse lazily in and out of the shops, all too quickly losing track of the time and, worse, when at last, belatedly, she did realize it, finding she didn’t have the slightest idea where she was. It didn’t seem to matter. Venice, she was discovering, had precisely that effect, her only concern being a particularly beautiful glass shoe she’d admired in a poky little shop a few streets back and considered buying for her mother. Too late to wish she had bought it now. Frowning, she turned off into a tiny square and a narrow street leading from it, standing to look around her and finding, surprisingly, the shops had disappeared to be replaced by villas and private dwelling houses, shuttered up in the main and so crowded in, one upon another, the place was cast in shadow, lending to it a surprisingly bleak and desolate air. Gone were the crowds of jostling tourists trooping wearily, if happily, back to their hotels. Here, nothing looked familiar. Hettie shivered, realizing, with a little quickening sense of apprehension, she really was lost. Vaguely worried by it, she turned and tried to retrace her steps only to discover, several hot and dusty minutes later, she was no further forwards; indeed, perplexingly, she appeared to have returned to the same wretched spot. If only the streets and alleyways weren’t so empty, so closed in
upon themselves, so each looking exactly the same! The joy of the Basilica seemed a lifetime ago. Doggedly, refusing to give in to the twist of fear plucking at her insides, Hettie plunged off in another direction, into more narrow and mean-looking streets, all intersected by Venice’s intricate network of canals, which here, in this poor place, seemed deep and stagnant pools of brooding, sullen water with who knew what lurking beneath. And always the presence of the gaunt and shuttered villas, giving the insidious feeling that behind their windows, she was watched and not with benign intent.
Her nerves were on edge. She walked on, seeming now in her growing fear to hear footsteps behind her, drawing closer though there was a singular and unnerving lack of people around. She stopped, listening carefully, greeted only by an eerie silence interspersed by the soft lap of water and the croak of a bullfrog from the canal. There was no mistaking the footsteps had stopped too. Hettie swung round, wondering if that really was a man’s figure she saw, slinking behind the shadowed recess of a wall or merely a trick of the worryingly fading light. Crazy to think anyone meant to do her harm but she’d no intention of stopping to find out. She hurried on, instantly and horrifyingly aware of the sound of swift and stealthy feet padding behind her, leaving her without the slightest doubt that she really was being followed and with what intent, she could only dread – a thief or worse and it was no good now to remember all Dizzy’s ceaseless warnings to have a care. She hurried on, the footsteps behind hurrying too, so at last, she gave in to her rising panic and broke into a headlong and reckless run. Instantly, the footsteps began to run too, leaving her all too horribly aware that they were eating up the steadily narrowing gap between them with long and easy strides.
Her pursuer was all but upon her. Hettie’s breathing grew ragged; her heart thudded against its ribcage. Suddenly, a hand reached out, grabbing her shoulder and spinning her round, halting her progress so abruptly that she stumbled; nearly fell, only miraculously righting herself. Tensing to face her attacker, she steadied herself, surprised then in a sudden and overwhelming anger. A man dressed in a dirty shirt and greasy canvas trousers, his thin face scarred by pock-marks, stood before her. But whoever was he and how dare he frighten her like this! Her anger, written so clearly on her face, had surprised him too, his gloating expression instantly and satisfyingly changing to one of uncertainty.
‘Hey! You! Leave her alone. . . .’
The voice, wonderfully English and emerging from the alleyway behind them, startled Hettie nearly as much as it did her attacker. Miraculously, aggressor was now victim. A hand grabbed a hold of his shirt, pulling him round to deliver a well-aimed punch so there was the satisfying sound of knuckles smacking against jaw. Cursing out loud, the man staggered, was lucky to recover before taking to his heels and running off, like a startled hare, back down the street. Hettie’s liberator started after him but then, evidently thinking better of it, returned so she could see now that it was a boy of roughly her own age, dressed in shorts and a white collarless shirt. He was scowling. A pair of deep-set and brooding eyes stared down at her from under a mop of dark and unruly hair.
‘Are you alright?’ he demanded.
‘I . . . I think so,’ she said, deciding quickly and thankfully that she was. ‘I was looking for my hotel, the Duono Palace. I’m lost, I’m afraid,’ she confessed.
The news seemed to startle him. ‘I’ve no idea how you’ve managed to end up here, then,’ he replied, looking at her as if she’d lost possession of her wits. His gaze was tinged with mockery so she blushed furiously. ‘Rum-coloured hair,’ he said at last, with the ghost of a smile.
Hettie’s hair had been called many things but never that. How rude he was! Some of her gratitude towards him for saving her began to disappear. There was no time to remonstrate.
‘You’d best follow me back,’ he muttered and, at which words, he spun abruptly on his heels and, without waiting for answer, or even more worryingly, stopping to see if she followed or not, walked quickly away. Not of a mind to stay here a moment longer than was necessary, Hettie was left with no option but to follow him, on an endless trek taking them through even more sunless and convoluted corridors so that soon, unbelievably, she was more lost than ever and worse, beginning to dread she’d merely exchanged one set of dangerous circumstances for another.
All at once they plunged into a widening alleyway, the end of which catapulted them into a busy little sunlit square that she instantly and thankfully recognized.
‘Your hotel’s down there,’ the boy muttered, nodding towards it and then, maddeningly before she’d even chance to thank him for saving her, walking quickly away in the opposite direction. He never even bothered to look back. Some knight in shining armour she thought, sorrowfully. And yet, rude as he’d been, he had saved her. Perplexed, thankful, still in some state of shock, Hettie stood frowning after him, only the lateness of the hour and the likelihood of Dizzy raising the heavens if she didn’t make haste recollecting her to the present. Luck was with her. Back at the hotel and making her way upstairs to their suite, she discovered her former governess was only now, thankfully, rousing herself from a deep and refreshing sleep miraculously rendering her unaware of all that had befallen her young charge, rushing so guiltily into their rooms. She sat up on the bed, patting her sadly greying hair, a bony, highly strung woman, her features saved from plainness by her kind and benign expression.
‘There you are, my dear! Have you been enjoying yourself? But goodness! Look at the time; why didn’t you call me? I think I could manage a little dinner today. We’d better get a move on if we aren’t to be late. . . .’ she finished, gingerly easing her legs to the floor.
It was good to see her more her usual self and Hettie felt a surprising rush of affection. Glad to put the afternoon’s business behind her, obediently she washed and changed, following her mentor downstairs, meanwhile allowing the older woman’s usual and ceaseless prattle to drift gently and harmlessly over her head. They ate in the elegant and high-ceilinged dining room of the hotel and after their meal, plain food cooked deliciously, took their coffee outside onto a small terrace leading from it, dripping with bougainvillea and overlooking the canal and where the warm and rapidly falling darkness was punctuated by the bright lights of the gondolas reflecting on the glittering water like stars. A heady atmosphere, oddly engendering the sense something was missing if only Hettie had the slightest idea what that was.
It had been that sort of a day. Thinking of Bill, she frowned.
‘You’ll allow me to join you, please?’ Though the voice was English, its heavy accent determined it as belonging to one of the many German residents staying in their hotel. Startled from her reverie, Hettie looked up to see a thick-set, middle-aged man hovering by their table, his iron-grey hair swept back from a high forehead. Above average height, tall in fact, an intimidating man she sensed, his smile not quite meeting his eyes, which were of a pale, Teutonic blue and presently looking straight at her. Without waiting for answer, he called to a waiter for coffee and sat down at their table, proceeding then to introduce himself. His name was Count Charles Dresler, a dealer in fine art from Berlin, here in Venice on pressing business. How could he help but notice two such elegant and beautiful young ladies dining here alone and . . . well . . . here he was!
Poor Dizzy was as putty in his hands. Hettie looked on amused. Hettie, he hardly paid attention to and yet, now and then and when, she suspected, he thought she wasn’t looking, she felt his eyes move lazily over her, as if he was summing her up. A man who said one thing and thought much else, she sensed, wondering if he was all that he appeared.
The afternoon’s adventure had set her nerves on edge.
‘But we mean to visit Berlin too,’ Dolores told him excitedly, explaining about Hettie’s grand tour and her position as her chaperone. Her blush deepened so Hettie guessed, shy person that she was, her former governess was worried she’d been too forward. The Count reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a card, pressin
g it upon her.
‘Please take it. . . .’ he murmured. ‘I own a fairly prestigious art gallery in Berlin. Whilst you’re there, I’d take it as the greatest of honours if you’d call and allow me to show you around.’
‘But what a delightful man,’ Dizzy murmured when, coffee drunk, finally, he departed but only after he’d assured himself they would take him up on his offer. She tucked the card away in her handbag and smiled dreamily. Hettie smothered a laugh.
‘Wasn’t he just,’ she said, yet not sure if she really agreed and relieved when Dizzy, still weak from her illness, began to yawn and suggested they retire. Upstairs in her room, an annexe leading from Dizzy’s, she threw her clothes into an untidy heap on the floor and fell into bed, thankfully drifting at once into a deep and dreamless sleep and not waking until the early morning sunshine flooded her room, dappling her face in shades of a warm and golden, yellow-greenish light.
She stretched, yawned sleepily, lying quietly awhile to think. Her itinerary, chosen by her grandmother, was a crowded one and hardly gave the travellers chance to draw breath. But now they’d actually embarked on the adventure, even Hettie had to agree, it seemed only expedient to cram in as much sightseeing as possible. Tomorrow they were travelling to Vienna for a two-day stay, followed by a further two days in Prague. Today, the morning was to spent exploring the Doge’s Palace and the afternoon filled with an excursion to one of Venice’s more prestigious glass factories. She was looking forward to both visits, she discovered, happily. Jumping out of bed, she dressed quickly, waiting impatiently for Dizzy to complete her toilet before hustling them downstairs to the dining room and the breakfast table where she couldn’t help but notice that Dizzy kept her gaze glued firmly to the door.
