The Captain's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  Oh, Mum, I know now how you must have felt in losing Joe and Ellen. You lost them both. I still have my child but it is so hard. I think I understand now why you did what you did.

  Death was death. There was no coming back. She didn’t attend the cathedral with Celeste. She was still too angry to pray. No, she really didn’t like the person staring back at her. She felt as if she was the only one to be feeling as she did, like a frightened little girl stamping her feet against her losses, not knowing what to do next.

  ‘Miss, miss?’ a voice broke her reverie. ‘Is this all right?’

  It was Jimmy Brogan, one of the Birmingham Irish scholarship boys, short and slight, pinched in the face. She’d forgotten to look at his efforts. He’d carved a Celtic cross into the stone, and for a beginner was showing a firm hand and a neat execution. In fact it was an excellent piece of work.

  ‘This is good. I like the way you’ve finished it off,’ Ella said, smiling. At least someone had taken her advice.

  ‘Do you think they’ll let me take it home?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she cautioned. ‘Isn’t it part of your assessment for a place at the art college?’

  ‘I ain’t doing that, miss. This is for Peg, a grave marker,’ he replied, not looking at her.

  ‘Peg is your dog?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Oh, no, miss, Peg’s my sister. She got run over by a bus in the blackout. She was going to get a jug from the milk cart.’ He bent his head to hide his tears. ‘I’d like to give it to me mam.’

  ‘You take it then. I’ll make sure the cost’s covered. How is your mother?’ she continued as if she needed to ask after such a tragedy.

  ‘Bad, since we were bombed out, miss. We’re living with her sister and they don’t get on, and me dad’s with the Eighth Army in Italy. It’s all a bit of a crush.’

  Ella looked at his work with admiration. ‘You know there are more scholarships for boys like you to go on further,’ she said, realizing she could be losing a talented pupil.

  ‘Not for the likes of me. I’ve got a job in a foundry with my uncle Pat. I can always carry on at night school,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’m glad you like it, miss.’

  ‘It comes from the heart, Jimmy. Good work always begins inside here.’ She tapped her chest, feeling the sadness well up. ‘Remember, not from your head, from your heart. Stick to that and you’ll not go wrong. Good luck.’

  Why on earth was she complaining when this boy had no home, no father and had lost a sister? Now his talent would go untrained. She had a roof over her head, a darling daughter and caring friends. She had a job, a modicum of talent. She must help Jimmy realize his potential somehow. What about an apprenticeship with Bridgeman & Sons, the masons in Lichfield? It might just be possible.

  She spun round, sensing a presence just over her shoulder and heard a familiar voice. ‘Good show, I knew you’d see sense, darling. Just get on with it, don’t waste your gift.’ She could hear Anthony’s voice so clearly, piercing her frozen defences. ‘I’ll never leave you.’

  The pain of recognition was almost too much for her to bear, standing there in the studio classroom, watching the bent heads of these young people with so much hope before them. Then, mercifully, the bell rang and she told them to down tools and ushered them through the door with as much haste as was decent. Only then did she sit at her desk and break down, sobbing, her head buried in her hands. Anthony was never coming back to her, yet there was a bit of him inside if she could only listen.

  She thought of Jimmy’s Celtic cross and the pride and love that he had put into it as she sat on the bus going home, staring out of the window, feeling strangely light-headed. She’d heard his voice again: ‘You can do something for that boy.’ Anthony knew her grief and had come to comfort her. As long as she lived she could touch that bit of him within her.

  After supper that night, Ella rushed upstairs to pull out the box of his things with the precious letter inside. She hugged it to herself before she opened it. Through her tears she managed to read:

  This is a letter I hope you will never have to read but if you are, then the worst will have happened. Have no regrets. I haven’t. I have been blessed in finding you and knowing part of me lives on for you through Clare. Children are our immortality. Please give Clare her letter when you think she is old enough to understand.

  She will know her parents even if neither of us got that chance.

  Don’t be bitter that fate hasn’t allowed me to survive. I always knew this day might come. Better to live one day as a tiger . . . goes the proverb, and we flyers are tigers in the air. Someone has to stop that madman over the Channel.

  I wish I could write a poem, a sonnet to express how much I love you, but all I keep thinking of is how lucky I am to know you and be loved by you. No one can take away those precious days alone in the cottage, our hilltop rides from Thorpe Cross, making love high on the rocks, those sweet walks down the tow path and the sight of you walking down the aisle of the cathedral. In time, feel free to let go of me and find someone else to cherish you. I don’t want you to be lonely.

  Chin up. Be British.

  Goodbye, my darling.

  115

  During the following weeks Roddy and Father Frank took to patrolling the perimeter fence every morning and evening, a ritual often carried out in silence, a chance to walk off their frustrations. From their first tentative steps together a friendship grew.

  ‘If you are going to escape, you need to be fit. Walk and work, build up your legs,’ Frank whispered one day. ‘You must discuss it with other officers in case someone wants out with you.’

  ‘I’d prefer to try on my own.’

  ‘Forget it then. You wouldn’t last two minutes.’

  ‘You come then,’ Roddy challenged him.

  ‘This is where I stay, tempted as I am to sneak off for a couple of hours and find the Bartolini clan.’

  Roddy liked Frank’s honesty, the way he could grumble and curse with the best of them. He wasn’t like any other vicar he had met. He fought for better food rations, the sharing out of Red Cross parcels, more medical supplies. He’d found the commandant was a good Catholic and allowed a local priest in to bring consecrated wafers and hear his confession.

  Their mail was hit and miss, but one morning Roddy found Frank pacing round the fence, unable to speak, holding out a letter from his mother telling him his brother had been killed in the Pacific, his ship torpedoed.

  ‘Jack was the bad one. I was the good guy. But my father loved his bad boy. He will take it hard, two of his children lost now.’

  Only weeks later came news of Ella’s husband, months out of date. Roddy was now up to running round their trodden path. He stopped. ‘Why do we do this, all this killing to each other?’ he asked Frank, who was puffing to catch him up.

  ‘Because we’re animals, territorial animals out of the jungle, I reckon. It’s bred in us to hunt and scavenge and fight. We forget we’re all the same under the skin, a fallen race.’

  ‘Are we? I’m not so sure,’ Roddy replied. ‘I’ve seen some terrible things from our side and some decent things from the enemy. Get me outta here, I’m going to explode.’ He could feel the frustration tearing inside him.

  ‘Did you talk to the escape committee?’

  ‘They want an organized break-out. They say it was easier when the camp was run by the Italians. The guards now are much more thorough.’

  ‘I’ve heard there is still a secret hole dug under the outer perimeter fence and the field workers aren’t guarded all the time. There’s a priest in the town. He says if we can find the right spot in the fields, there are ways to walk out but you’ll need to work on your Italian. The dialect here is unfathomable and we need to get those legs in better shape if they are to do twenty miles a day uphill.’

  Roddy felt his thighs; they were still weak and thin. ‘I’ll double the circuit.’

  ‘Put rocks in your pockets to add some weight and I’ll try to get
you extra rations.’

  ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ Roddy asked. ‘I’m not even a Catholic.’

  ‘We can work on that later,’ Frank quipped.

  That’s what Roddy liked about him: no bullshit, just honest talk and a big heart.

  ‘I think one decent escape is worth twenty half-hearted attempts. If you can walk yourself through enemy lines to the Allies, send us a postcard.’

  ‘You?’

  Frankie shook his head. ‘Though I might have a day excursion to see my father’s family. As long as I’m back before roll call. I could pick up supplies. Father Mario is to be trusted, I’m sure.’

  ‘So when do we go?’ Roddy felt the excitement surge through him.

  ‘When it is time. Be patient, get fitter. It’ll be no walk in the park, especially for you. You know the risks.’

  ‘You’ve got it all planned, haven’t you?’

  Frank tapped the side of his nose and smiled. ‘Only in my head. First we need to get you supplies, bribes, smokes and, most of all, good luck.’

  ‘You’d better get on your knees then,’ Roddy laughed back.

  ‘You and me both, brother. Two voices are louder than one.’

  116

  By some miracle Father Mario and Frank made contact with a network of sympathizers who were setting up a chain of messages to the Bartolinis to expect secret visitors. It sounded a crazy scheme, all the more so when Roddy realized they were to filter out of a field working party. He would put on a cassock and claim to be another padre on pilgrimage. This meant stripping off his officer rank, disguising himself among the field gang and bribing one of the weaker guards with smokes and souvenirs to smooth their escape.

  The night before the plan, he took Frank aside. ‘It’s too risky for you,’ Roddy whispered. ‘You go another day after I’m gone.’ If the escape was discovered, the padre would be in danger himself. But Frank would hear none of it.

  ‘I owe it to my father to seek out his family before we’re sent north, like all the rest. It is only a matter of time before we’re moved. The nearer the Allies get, the further we’ll be sent from joining them. You making a run for it will have nothing to do with my extraordinary visit. I’ll be back on time. No one will connect us. I know how to get back in now.’

  On the appointed morning, Roddy slipped out to the other compound on a pretext, ripped off his insignia, trying to transform his uniform into more peasant clothing, and filled his knapsack with tins, smokes, anything that could be bartered. He shivered as they opened the gates, knowing every one of them would be culpable if his disappearance was discovered too soon. He tried to look calm as he edged as far as he could to the far side of the field for their short rest break. Some of the boys were planning to distract the guard while Frank darted first into the woody copse where he hoped some partisans might be waiting.

  It was a scorching day and the men were stripped to the waist, glad of any makeshift cap to deflect the sun’s glare from their faces and necks. The guards in their uniforms slunk off for a smoke in the shade. Two men picked a fight and soon everyone was brawling and Roddy seized his chance to dart out of sight and make for the spot where he hoped someone would be waiting for him.

  True to his word, an old man and a young priest pulled him into the bush, pulled a cassock over his sweating body and shoved a biretta on his head to hide his sun-bleached hair. He was rushed to an ancient truck and unceremoniously dumped under a load of sacks. Frank was already lying in the back, sweating. They rode through narrow twisting cart tracks for what seemed miles, including past one roadblock.

  It seemed Father Mario was a familiar sight with his round pebble-glass spectacles, acknowledging the local militia guards cheerily as they waved him through.

  ‘The Bartolinis will keep you for a few days only. Everyone here is afraid of reprisals. There are Fascist sympathizers in every village with tongues as big as the Grand Canyon. You must head south to the Allies as best you can, only at night, of course. The cassock may help you – or not. This area is very mixed.’

  The truck jolted to a stop outside a small farmhouse with golden stone outbuildings and a red tiled roof. It nestled in the hillside with a good view of the track. Hearing the sound of the truck, an old man and woman stood in the doorway, blinking into the sun and watching as Frank and the priest got out and then pulled Roddy out.

  ‘This is Father Francesco Bartolini, and his comrade, the captain.’

  Their leathery faces stared as they shook hands with the priest and gabbled in Italian. They stood politely eyeing them cautiously but pointed to the door.

  Roddy was blinded for a second as they were ushered into a dark room with a smoking fire, a polished table, and stucco walls lined with fading portraits. The first thing he noticed, though, was lace. It was everywhere: lining the mantelpiece, the back of the old armchairs, the edge of the tablecloth, the panels on the curtain netting. Everything was pristine, though the room was humble and smoke filled. They were given a thick soup of pasta and vegetables and slices of hard cheese with deliciously ripe peaches that melted into their mouths.

  Frankie was stumbling, trying to understand their dialect, nodding, waving his hands and pointing to the photographs. Roddy noticed a very old lady was weeping in the corner as she listened to his story, shaking her head, and crossing herself, and when it came to the bit about the lucky shoe, which he’d pulled out from under his cassock, she almost collapsed. ‘Merletto d’Anghiari, Salvatore, look.’ She was so excited. The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. ‘Il bambino d’Angelo, Francesco!’

  Frank was shaking his head, trying to explain why she was in such a state. ‘She says my father brought this many years ago. Now she knows I am truly his son. They thought we might be spies. It’s from one of the Marcelli patterns, a pattern of the paese, the local district. She says it is a miracle. Look over there at her lace maker’s stool and cushion. I’ve seen those in New York. This is my grandmother and my cousin and his wife. They must have no name, just in case . . . I must be dreaming this. Wait until I tell the folks back home.’ He smiled and sipped a rough country wine, which was as sweet as liquorice.

  All too soon the sun crossed over the ridge and it was time for them to return. Father Mario was especially anxious to be off. ‘You must get back to the camp. We mustn’t be out by curfew.’ But Frank was reluctant to part from his family with so many questions still to ask and so much to tell them.

  Roddy felt moved to have witnessed such a reunion. He would stay the night in their attic, their hidden guest, stripped of his cassock now. All he could give them was cigarettes and a few Red Cross tins, muttering his grazies, as best he could.

  Once outside he dared not show his fair skin and hair in case there were other eyes watching. Nothing would remain secret in these valleys by sundown. He shook Frank’s hand. ‘If and when I get back, I’ll make sure your folks know you’re safe and that you met up with your father’s family at long last. I promise.’

  Frank edged towards the door and his cousin offered him the shoe back but he refused it. ‘It belongs here. It joins us back together, proof of my visit,’ he said, shoving it back into her hand. ‘My father wishes it.’

  There was something about this act that moved Roddy so much he found himself doing a strange thing. He bent down on one knee. ‘Give me a blessing, Father. I may need it where I’m going,’ he whispered. ‘When this is over we’ll dine out on the stories for many a year. How can I thank you all for what you are risking, my friends?’ he added. ‘Tell them what I’m saying, Frank.’

  Frank translated and then whispered in his ear, ‘Just get the hell out of here tomorrow and make a home run.’

  The truck hit a puncture somewhere close to Arezzo. It was getting late and Frank knew he would be late for roll call. They would be in trouble now. The commandant was a decent man but he would not stand for this deception and by now would realize that another man was missing. Frank sighed, knowing he’d have to walk the rest o
f the way back. The old priest was not up to his faster pace but he knew where the entrance was on the perimeter wire.

  ‘Stay with the truck and the driver. You can say you were going to give the last rites somewhere. No one will ever query it. I will walk back to camp, take a short cut across the fields. It can’t be more than a mile or two. Thank you for giving me this chance to see my family. We’ll not risk this again. You’ve done enough. I’ll never forget your kindness.’

  Mario held on to him. ‘Stay you can escape too,’ pleaded the old man. ‘The capitano will not last three days on the run without you to help him. You are one of us, you look like one of us. You can pass as a native, who has come back from America. Your accent will give you away but we can make up a good story for you. Stay, Francesco.’

  ‘No, I gave my word. There are sick men who need me; the doc needs my help.’ He shook Mario’s hand firmly. ‘I’ll get back late, the only POW begging to get back into his prison. That will amuse them and I shall bore everyone with the story of my secret pilgrimage. My knowledge of the terrain may be useful next time.’

  He didn’t tell him he had a compass hidden in a button of his uniform beneath his cassock. It was a warm night as he ripped off the button of his uniform to set the directions.

  How different a wood seemed in the dusk, the shade of the leaves, a drone of mosquitoes aiming for his face, the croak of frogs and a hint of mist. It would be so easy to get lost, but with the aid of his lighter, he checked his bearings, still feeling uneasy. It had been an indulgence to escape for a day. Now he must pay for the risk.

  He’d played on the commandant’s faith in letting Father Mario in to see him. Had he put men’s lives at risk? He lingered, feeling the freedom of the open space, the smell of pines. Who would not want to dally in such a haven?

  As it grew ever darker in the wood, the path grew less distinct, but a path he trusted led out onto the fields where he and Roddy had made their exits only that morning. He hadn’t gone far when he heard the barking of approaching dogs and glimpsed a flash of light. Hunters looking for deer or wild boar perhaps? But it took only a moment for him to realize he was the quarry, and it wasn’t hunters but the Feldgendarmerie, tough militia types hunting for escaped prisoners of war.