by Isobel Chace
Ruth sat stock still, her back as stiff as a poker. “Are you suggesting,” she asked awfully, “that I don’t really want to go home?”
“No,” Pearl said pacifically. "But I don’t think you’d want to go if you weren’t pretty sure that Mario will come after you.” She eyed her sister thoughtfully. “Don’t blame me, that’s all, if you get hurt!”
“I won’t!” Ruth said dourly.
“That’s all right, then,” Pearl said with grudging approval. “You’d better set about getting Roberto to retrieve your passport for you. I shall hitch a ride into Palermo and get you a ticket. Have you got any money?”
Ruth found her purse and opened it. At first sight it looked as if she had millions of lire, but when she counted them up they didn’t look as they were going very far.
“Will you have enough, do you think?” she asked Pearl anxiously.
Pearl accepted the bundle of notes with a resigned expression. “It won’t allow for luxuries, will it?” she said sourly. “What have you done with all the money we brought with us?”
“I left it at the hotel in Naples for you,” Ruth said.
Pearl looked a trifle guilty. “Oh, was I supposed to keep it?” she muttered. “I thought it was something to keep me entertained while you were away.”
“Oh, Pearl, you didn’t! What on earth did you spend it on?”
“Shoes mostly,” Pearl remembered with glee. “Italian shoes must be the best in the world! I’ve never seen such gorgeous, fragile creations! I could have bought up the whole shop!”
“But they weigh so heavily,” Ruth protested feebly. “What are you going to do on the flight home?”
“Smile at the man who weighs us in,” Pearl said simply.
Feeling more than a little harassed, Ruth went downstairs again, hoping to find Roberto on his own. In this she was lucky, for Mario’s uncle had deposited his wife at the house of some friends and had come home himself, looking for a quiet place where he could have a smoke and read some papers to do with his business. It had been a bad time for him to come away from Tunis, pleased as he had been to snatch a few days in his native Sicily, and he felt obliged to carry on with as much work as he could while he was there.
He looked up from the gilded sofa on which he was seated as Ruth came into the room.
“Ah, my dear, how nice! Have you come to have a chat with me?” His eyes noted her goaded expression with something very like amusement. “You know that I am very much at your service.”
‘Thank you,” she said with dignity. She sat down quickly on a small chair, facing him, wondering how she could possibly make her request known to him. If only he had looked a little less like Mario!
“It’s something dreadful!” she confessed in a forlorn voice.
“But not so dreadful that it can’t be put right?” he suggested.
She took courage from his quiet confidence and relaxed a trifle. “Will you help me?” she asked him frankly.
“That’s what I came to Sicily to do,” he reminded her quietly.
“Yes, I know,” she said, and stopped. She looked at him earnestly. “I can’t stay here after all!” she explained in a little burst. “I thought I could, but I can’t!”
She more than half expected his expression to harden as Mario’s did whenever he was crossed, but Roberto remained perfectly calm. “Then of course nobody will make you stay,” he said quietly.
“But that’s just it! Mario took my passport in to Palermo and now I don’t know if I even have one! And Pearl has bought shoes with most of the money! And our return tickets only go from Naples, and I don’t know if we have enough to get there! And even if we could, I can’t go anywhere without a passport!”
He seemed to have no difficulty in sorting out this rather garbled account. “I suppose your passport is at the British Consulate? But that’s the easiest thing in the world! We shall call there and ask them for it. They can hardly refuse to give it to you.”
“But Mario may—”
“I hardly think that even Mario has found a way to subvert the entire British diplomatic corps to his own ends,” Roberto said dryly.
Ruth perceived that she was being silly. She blushed to the roots of her hair. “N-no,” she agreed.
“Nor does your being married to him mean that you automatically lose your British status,” Roberto reassured her. As this was not a contingency that had previously occurred to Ruth, she was far from being grateful for this piece of information.
“I won’t be Sicilian!” she stormed at him.
Roberto grinned at her. “Italian,” he said.
“I don’t care what you call it, I won’t be it!” Ruth said sulkily. The prospect of having her nationality snatched away from her began to loom large in her mind. “It’s just the sort of thing Mario would do to me!”
Roberto looked intrigued. “Do you think so?” he asked gently.
Ruth bit her lip. She gave a reluctant laugh and promptly felt very much better. “I’m sorry!” she said impulsively. I can’t think what’s the matter with me, I’m so jumpy! And you’re being so kind too! Do you really think you can get my passport back?”
“I shall be very surprised if I don’t.” He patted her hand encouragingly. “There’s no need to look like that, my dear. If you want to leave Sicily, you shall, and nobody will stop you—not even Mario!”
A new anxiety occurred to Ruth. “You won’t tell him, will you?” she demanded. “I—I couldn’t bear him to know!”
“He’ll have to know some time,” Roberto pointed out.
“But he won’t let me go! He’ll stop me, I know he will!”
He began to think it was only too likely. If Ruth was able to work herself up into such a state at the mere thought of his nephew, he was inclined to think that Mario had only to appear over her horizon for her to become completely hysterical. As he was not particularly enamoured of having to deal with hysterical females, no matter how fond he was of them in their calmer moments, he promised himself a few well-chosen words with his nephew at the first opportunity that presented itself. Meanwhile, he reluctantly returned his attention to Ruth.
“There is absolutely nothing for you to worry about,” he reiterated firmly. “If you will go and pack your things, I will have the car sent round and will take you to Palermo myself.”
Ruth sighed with relief. “You’re being very kind to me,” she said gratefully.
He looked amused. “The Verdecchios have a weakness for helping pretty girls,” he teased her.
She was inordinately pleased. “I’m not really pretty,” she denied. “But it’s nice to be told that you are!”
“What makes you think you are not pretty?” he asked with interest.
“Pearl is pretty,” she said seriously. “I don’t pretend to compete with her!”
“I imagine you don’t have to,” he answered gallantly. “She has a pretty face and taking ways. You have something else—”
Ruth looked at him inquiringly, fascinated. “What else?” she asked.
He considered her. “Zest,” he said promptly. “I don’t think your spirits fail you often, and that’s a far more lasting quality than mere prettiness.”
She didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry by his analysis.
“It isn’t very spirited to run away, is it?” she said humbly.
His eyes twinkled. “I don’t know,” he said frankly. “Only you can answer that.”
“Then I think it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done in my life!” she said flatly, and gave him an uncertain smile. “Do you think me very silly?”
His own smile answered her. “You’re a woman,” he said, as if that were answer enough. “And I daresay your instinct is as sound as most!”
She could only hope he was right.
Pearl was glad to be going. She got into the car without a backward look at the chauffeur who was struggling to lift her suitcase into the boot beside Ruth’s.
“It will be nice to see
England again,” she yawned. “Italy is really a very disappointing place.”
Ruth leaped headlong to Italy’s defence! “In what way?” she demanded. “I find it lovely! Where else have you ever been where you can smell the lemons growing on the trees? I think it’s beautiful! You should have seen the inside of their houses! The copper pans and implements are things of beauty in their own right. They don’t cook with mass-produced pots and pans and stainless steel and endless quantities of convenience foods!”
“Nobody’s making you come away,” Pearl reminded her smugly.
Ruth lapsed into silence. It was harder to leave Sicily than she had imagined. She had wept a little when she had said goodbye to Saro, shutting him into the stables so that he wouldn’t run after her. It was a funny thing, but she had felt at home from the moment she had stepped off the boat. None of the island had come as a surprise to her; it was almost as if it had always been a part of her, waiting somewhere in her subconscious to be recognised. The brilliant contrasts between light and shade, the cobbled squares, the fountains, the vineyards and, perhaps, particularly, the masses of colourful flowers that grew everywhere, even on the crowded balconies. In a few days, it had become more her home than the green, flowing fields of England, and the grey stone buildings of the school where she had taught. Where she still did teach, she corrected herself gloomily. She sniffed, making a brave attempt not to feel sorry for herself.
Roberto got into the front seat beside the chauffeur. He was wearing dark glasses which gave him a mysterious look. He didn’t even turn round to look at the two girls, but nodded to the chauffeur to drive on.
“First, the British Consulate,” he murmured. “Then we shall see.”
The road flashed by all too quickly. Ruth peeped out of the car as they came to the gates to see if Mario was still there, but there was no sign of him. A sob broke in the back of her throat and the tears poured silently down her cheeks. She would never see him again! And she hated teaching!
Pearl handed her a handkerchief and frowned at her. “For heaven’s sake—” she began, much put out.
“I fancy she is better left alone,” Roberto said from the front seat.
Pearl shrugged. “I think she’s barmy!”
Roberto smiled wearily. “Only unhappy, I think,” he said.
Ruth was grateful for his forbearance. She blinked the tears out of her eyes so that she could see her last of Sicily, trying hard to pull herself together. She owed it to Pearl to be something better than a tearful wreck, she thought. These last few days had been hard for her too. Ruth remembered how hard it had been to persuade her to come to Italy with her at all.
“A lot of classical ruins!” she had said. “Why on earth do you want to go and stare at them?”
“I teach people about them,” Ruth had reminded her.
Pearl had made a face at her. “I prefer the living to the dead!” she had said grandly. “You can’t live your life with a ruin!”
The tears came storming back into Ruth’s eyes. How right she had been! It had seemed go important to her though, to wander through Italy, re-living the history of a different people in a different age. She must have been mad! For what pillar, or ancient stone, could compare with Mario’s little finger, or even with Saro? The thought of the little dog was too much for her and she blew her nose with determination.
The car stopped outside the British Consulate while Roberto got out.
“Perhaps you had better wait somewhere,” he suggested vaguely. “The cafe piccolo. I’ll meet you there as soon as I have your passport.”
The chauffeur drove away a few yards down the street and came to a stop again beside a small cafe that spilled out over the pavement, a huddle of highly coloured tables and chairs, half hiding behind a wooden lattice screen over which a creeper climbed, a mass of heavy, hanging trumpet flowers, beneath which swirled the dust from the street.
Ruth and Pearl sat outside at one of the tables while the chauffeur went inside to buy himself a glass of brandy. A waiter came out and took their order for coffee and the delicious ice cream that Italy is renowned for.
“I can't think what Father is going to say!” Pearl said in matter-of-fact tones as the coffee arrived. “What will you do if he says you ought to come back?”
Ruth shook her head. “He won’t,” she said.
“Perhaps not to you!” Pearl admitted. “It would be a different story if it were me! I wonder why he thinks you’re so level-headed and me such a will-o’-the-wisp? He must be a very bad judge of character!”
Ruth tried to smile. “I always have been levelheaded,” she protested.
Pearl gave a brittle laugh. “Until now!” she agreed. She watched Ruth wince and her eyes opened innocently. “It will be interesting to see how Father responds to his new daughter—”
“Don’t, Pearl!” Ruth pleaded.
But Pearl was enjoying herself. “He thinks I’m a baggage! Imagine what he’ll call you when he finds out feat you’re besotted with a man like Mario who doesn’t give a rap for you!”
“He married me,” Ruth said through clenched teeth.
Pearl sucked at her ice-cream spoon with ill-concealed triumph. “But it hardly looks as if you are going to stay married to him! Despite all your high moral principles and submissive ways!” She frowned and then smiled. “Oh, don’t listen to me, Ruth. You know I don’t mean it!”
Ruth didn’t answer. She ate her ice-cream mechanically and sipped at her coffee. She wasn’t even listening to what Pearl was saying. She was too busy fighting the grey despair feat threatened to completely engulf her. Was she mad to refuse what Mario cared to offer her because she couldn’t have everything she wanted? She really didn’t know.
Roberto joined them just as they were finishing their coffees. He waved fee passport in triumph, throwing it down on the table beside Ruth.
“They did it while I waited,” he told her. “You have to sign it somewhere before you can use it.”
Ruth opened it timidly. Only the picture of herself was familiar. She couldn’t imagine where it had come from, but it was certainly a good likeness, a much better likeness than she had had in her passport before. Otherwise everything in it was strange and unfamiliar. Signora Verdecchio, she read with dismay, followed by her Christian names, Ruth Anne. She wasn’t even herself any more!
Luckily, she was not allowed to brood on her change of identity. Roberto hurried them away from the cafe.
“We shall be late for the boat for Naples unless we hurry,” he told them. “We still have Ruth’s ticket to get. We have no time to linger!”
It was something new to Ruth to have a man to manage her affairs for her. It was rather pleasant, she discovered, to have Roberto to buy her ticket for her and to find a porter to take the luggage on board, while she had nothing to do but to stand beside the gangway until it was time to go up it as the ship was sailing. It showed no signs of doing so, however, and most of the crew were still lounging on the deck, watching the world go by below them.
Ruth lost interest in the doings of her own ship as another boat started to come in alongside. Standing on the deck, obviously hoping to be the first ashore, stood the most lovely woman that Ruth had ever seen. She was no longer young, but even from a distance she was able to see beautiful planes of her face and the sweet expression that flickered across her face, mixed with an impatience at the delays in letting down the gangway.
Roberto came up beside Ruth and handed her her ticket.
“I must pay you,” she said, and began to search in her handbag, forgetting that she had given all the money to Pearl.
“No, no,” he argued. “We owe you this much, no? It is a small thing, my dear. A very small thing.”
She sensed that any further argument would be distasteful to him, so she thanked him warmly instead, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.
“Have you ever seen anyone lovelier than that woman over there?” she asked him, changing the subject quickly to hide her emb
arrassment, for there was no doubt about it, he did look very like Mario.
Roberto turned to look where she was pointing. His serious face broke into smiles and he began to run towards the boat.
“Mary-Anne! Mary-Anne!”
The woman searched the crowd, looking for the person who was calling her name, a half-smile just touching her lips.
“Roberto!” she called back. “Oh, Roberto, you don’t know how pleased I am to see you! I couldn’t stay in New York a minute longer! I had to see her for myself!”
The gangway clattered down on to the quay and the woman flung herself down it, abandoning her luggage to the goodwill of her fellow passengers. She embraced Roberto with warm affection. “Do you mind?” she asked him guiltily. “How is Lucia?”
“We are all delighted that you have come,” he responded happily. ‘Yes, I think you will like her, but she is determined to go back to England. And Lucia is very well.”
Mary-Anne’s startled expression made Ruth want to smile.
“Back to England?” Mario’s mother repeated. “But I’ve only just come!”
“You didn’t let us know—” Roberto fussed, but Mary-Anne’s attention had already left him. She looked about her, the determined look in her eye reminding Ruth of Mario at his most arrogant. It was intolerable that it should be so, but she felt a rush of affection for Mary-Anne because of it. Their eyes met and Mario’s mother smiled at her.
