Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  “Queen Elena!” Mrs Robertson says. “With the Duca di Lantra and the Conte della Trinitá.”

  Men remove their hats and caps, and bow. Women lower their eyes and curtsy. A hard–faced, elderly woman wearing a drab skirt and embroidered smock, steps forward from the crowd, throws herself to the ground and kisses the queen’s feet.

  People gasp, astonished at such a breach of protocol.

  At the queen’s side stands a man in a sombre frockcoat and high collar; he steps forward.

  With a gentle sweep of her white–gloved hand, the queen intercepts her courtier, beckoning him stay. She smiles generously, and her broad and strong forehead, her dark eyes, the graceful curve of her cheeks, her modest lips and her sculpted chin exude a warmth and serenity that enlightens those watching that she both understands the gesture and is not in the slightest perturbed by the sudden intrusion.

  Queen Elena bends to the woman, reaches down and encourages her to stand up, speaking to her under her breath so that no one else can eavesdrop the intimacy of her message.

  At first, the woman is uncertain of what she should do next. She glances up and then cowers down, lowering her gaze back to the floor.

  The queen, though, is insistent and whilst others hold their breath, she lifts the woman to her feet, nods a reassurance and stares deep into her eyes.

  People sigh. The awkward moment is over; the effrontery, like her gentleman–in–waiting, brushed aside.

  Eyes wide with awe, Lilla is speechless. Before her stands the heroine of her favourite fairy–tale; the princess who left her family in Montenegro and gave up her religion in order to marry her Crown Prince of Naples. The account of their courtship, their marriage and her mother’s disapproval had long been a favourite bedtime story, one Lilla’s mother would embellish with each telling.

  “She is more beautiful than I had imagined. Taller, too,” Lilla murmurs to herself. “How is it possible for a mother to look so young?”

  Mrs Robertson beams with pride. “I knew she wouldn’t let the King come alone. He’s so much like his father, a man who ‘never disdained to shake our rough hands’, or so the men of the Ostia Marshes proclaimed. Even after his father was shot, King Vittorio refused to blame his people. Why, in the middle of the night, a couple of days after his father’s funeral, there was a train crash in the Castel Giubileo, in Rome. The Grand–duke of Russia, the Grand–duchess and other dignitaries had travelled over for the ceremony and were returning home. They were all on the train, so when the king and queen found out about it, they didn’t wait for their royal carriage, they jumped in a taxi and went straight down to the scene. The king dismissed his guard, told them to get on and help in the rescue, while he and the queen helped look after the injured. They are, as we say, both for the people and of the people.”

  “You seem to know much about of our royal family.”

  “A little,” she says, modestly. “Now, what did I tell you about concentrating, young lady. Finish up what you’re doing and help me with this little girl. Poor thing, she’s no idea how bad the cuts on her hands are and it’s a wonder if her nails will ever grow back. She must have been clawing at the bricks for a lifetime.”

  The queen, escorted by her gentlemen and lady–in–waiting, makes her way slowly round the aid station, pausing now and again to offer the afflicted comfort and the bereaved commiseration. On more than one occasion while listening to a family’s tale of woe, Queen Elena is seen to draw a handkerchief and dab at the corners of her eyes.

  Lilla is wrestling with a child unwilling to have her wounds disinfected: the saline solution stings and the young girl cannot understand why she should be subjected to yet more pain when she has put up with so much already. Lilla does not notice the queen approach.

  “Mrs Robertson?” Queen Elena asks, as if she is surprised to find someone she knows working in such filthy conditions.

  “Your majesty.”

  “What are you doing here? I expected you to be at Isola Bella, minding the lady Trevelyan.”

  Lilla is once again struck dumb as she begins to understand that her guardian knows more than the little she suggested regarding the royal family.

  “I’m sad to report, your majesty, that my lady Trevelyan died the October before last. She was buried at Castelmola; the whole town turned out for the funeral.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Robertson, and even more sorry that I did not attend.” Queen Elena falls silent, a moment of contemplation, a pause for recollection and of respect.

  “I believe your majesty had her hands full at the time, what with the expected arrival of the Princess Giovanna. How is the Princess Mafalda?”

  “Enjoying good health, thank you.”

  “And the Princess Yolanda? Why, she must be nearly eight.”

  “She will be, this coming June. Yolanda is well and loves her swimming, much like your Miss Trevelyan, or rather Mrs Cacciola I should say. Has Mr Cacciola dispensed with your services?”

  “He has, your majesty. No cause for me to stay in Taormina now that I no longer have anyone to care for. I was en route when this dreadful earthquake struck the city.” Mrs Robertson sighs heavily, turning to take in the many injured lying about the aid station. “And King Vittorio? Is he enjoying good health? It is a boon that you have come. People will be so heartened to know you care.”

  The queen’s pearly white complexion colours briefly. “The king is very naturally saddened by the suffering of his people. So much so that to the consternation of his ministers he is digging amongst the ruins with his bare hands. Also, he is humbled by the timely and generous assistance afforded by so many nations, even if he is a little vexed by the inappropriate flamboyance of their welcome.” And as if she has committed some faux pas in letting slip that the king can be dismayed and is therefore mortal, the queen raises her head and asks, “So, who is this young helper you have by your side?”

  “Your majesty, may I present Lilla Lunapiena.”

  The queen extends her hand.

  Lilla stands and studies it. She knows she ought to bend her knee like others have and yet Lilla also knows that having never curtsied or tried to curtsey, there is every chance she will tie her legs in a knot and tumble inelegantly to the floor. She is also certain that the queen, however down to earth she may appear, will not want to shake a hand that is caked in the dried blood of her most recent patient, so she ignores the hand, bends her back and nods briefly towards it. “Pleased to meet you, your majesty.”

  “As am I, Lilla. Such a beautiful name. After the Madonna della Lettera, I understand. Let us hope she remembers to smile over the city in the coming weeks.” Queen Elena lingers, her dark eyes fixed on Lilla’s face, her dark eyebrows frowning in concern. “Tell me, young lady, how old are you?”

  “I’m sixteen, your majesty.”

  “Truly?”

  Lilla lowers her eyes. “Well, soon to be sixteen.”

  The queen waits, expecting.

  “This next month, the eighth.”

  The queen smiles, her teeth even whiter than her skin. “I thought we had something in common; we share the same birthday. Tell me, Lilla, where are your…” She hesitates and glances at Mrs Robertson as a dull thought plays on her mind.

  Mrs Robertson reads the thought and furrowing her brow, shakes her head.

  “All of them?” Queen Elena asks.

  Lilla, though, does not want to be side–lined from a conversation she now realises concerns her. “Yes, your majesty, they are all dead. Every single one: my mother, my father and my sisters. Even Enzo, my fiancé. All gone to rest with the Madonna.”

  The queen raises her head as if she has very suddenly noticed some anomaly in the ceiling of the old warehouse worthy of her regard. No one in their immediate vicinity mistakes her change in posture for anything other than what it is, namely a brave attempt to hold back the grow
ing tide of tears rising in her eyes.

  Everyone is watching. Everyone is waiting. Though for what, nobody is sure. This monarch. This matriarch. This mother to a greater family.

  Standing beside her, Lilla can both see and feel the emotions brimming within the regal guise, and it is evident to her that Queen Elena is trying her best to stifle her inner distress whilst at the same time attempting to maintain an outward calm. Lilla recognises the whirlpool and knows its overwhelming power; she reaches out to hold the queen’s hand and–

  Without warning, the floor of the warehouse begins to tremble, though this time there is no accompanying twenty–one–gun salute.

  And as if choreographed in one expansive stage manoeuvre, people stare uncomprehending at the person nearest them. Then they look up to the ceiling as the beams begin to vibrate and the dust of ground mortar billows down on them. Once more, the doctors and nurses cover their patients.

  People run. For the tenth, eleventh or perhaps thirteenth time since early Monday morning, people dash for the safety of outside. In the aid station, there must be eighty mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, grandparents and orphans. Some are too sick and too frail to move and some, because of their injuries, simply cannot move from their cots.

  In their haste to leave, people stumble and fall, and the mad scramble quickly develops into a stampede, those who tumble instantly trodden underfoot. In their panic, the queen’s greater family disregard her noble status. To them, suddenly, she is little more than just another obstacle placed in the path to their survival. The terror blinds them and without thinking they shove her aside.

  Queen Elena falls; one beautiful woman swept aside by a wave of grotesque hysteria.

  Lilla, too, is bumped and buffeted. However, she sees the queen go down and without thought for her own safety, flings herself on top, all the while shouting for the onrushing crowds to hold back. Shoes, boots and knees trample across her back. A person stumbles and falls on top of her. A hand pushes her hard against the queen’s back. A foot flattens Lilla’s outstretched hand.

  The aftershock lasts fifteen or perhaps twenty seconds. When you cannot run, when you are trapped, Lilla learns, the shaking of the ground seems to last forever. Was this how it was for Enzo?

  The world vibrates. Their bodies seem suspended. Their tongues will surely be shaken from their mouths, their eyes will surely be shaken from their sockets and their heads must surely become detached from their shoulders.

  And then, as violently as the aftershock began, it ceases and the trembling calms amid a crashing of already weakened walls and cracked ceilings.

  The dust settles, the medics examine each other and their traumatised patients, and Lilla is still stuck like a limpet to the queen’s back.

  Strong hands, like those she has imagined belonging to an omnipotent power, prise her from her berth and lift her.

  Lilla is met with an owlish, kindly face, his knowing grey eyes filled with concern.

  “Are you hurt?” asks the man. He is the escort who stepped forward when the woman prostrated herself at the queen’s feet.

  “Oh, yes, a little.” She shrugs, nonchalantly. Lilla turns, remembering the feel of the fur stole that had saved her face from greater damage.

  Standing beside her, the queen is being dusted off and pored over by her lady–in–waiting. Her eyes are a little glazed and her face is powdered with black dust. She ignores the fussing and summons a smile, suggesting no real harm has been done: “That was very brave of you, young lady.”

  Lilla rubs at her ribs and flexes the blood back into her flattened hand. “What are a few feet when I have survived falling houses? Oh, your majesty, your mouth. Your lip is cut.”

  “It is no more than a scratch.”

  However, her courtier and her lady–in–waiting are not so easily convinced and they hail a doctor.

  “No,” the queen says, sharply. “The doctors have enough to deal with. They should not have to waste their time on one who has come here out of choice. Mrs Robertson?”

  “Yes, of course. Let me take a look at you.”

  “If I may say,” the man with the kindly face interrupts, “we have your personal physician with us, perhaps he should–”

  “No,” the queen replies. “Mrs Robertson looked after Yolanda and Mafalda perfectly well when they were mere infants, I’m sure she is more than capable of attending to me. That aside, I should hope my physician is directing his energies elsewhere. Mrs Robertson?” Queen Elena asks again and glowering at her escort, perches on the edge of the cot, waiting.

  Mrs Robertson bends to inspect the graze. “I’m afraid we only have a saline solution, I…”

  The queen turns her head and winks at Lilla. “I see your leg is bandaged. Does it hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “Did Mrs Robertson clean your injury with saline solution.”

  “Naturally,” Lilla replies, puzzled.

  “In that case,” she decides, offering her chin, “if saline solution is good enough for you, then I see no good reason why the same should not be so for me. Please carry on.”

  Mrs Robertson fetches a clean swab, dips it into the bowl containing the clear solution and dabs, gently, at the wound. “Just a bit of grit, a little dust,” she coos, as though she is indeed talking to an infant. “There. I don’t believe that requires a dressing. One moment, let me look at your hands, your majesty.” She murmurs to herself as she inspects them. “Good, not so bad; your gloves protected you. You will, though, be bruised from your fall, so perhaps you should ask your physician to check on you when he has time.”

  “Thank you, I will.” The queen stands up and, turning to her escort and her lady–in–waiting, she fixes them with a penetrating glower. “We must find somewhere for all these children who have no one left to care for them. Please make some enquiries as to the whereabouts of the Sisters of the Poor.”

  Lilla straightens as if coming to attention.

  “Yes, Lilla? You have something to say?”

  “Yes, your majesty. I have been told that the Capuccin Convent and church have been destroyed. A Russian officer said there is nothing left standing in that area.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Queen Elena replies. “It would seem barely a building in the city remains unaltered. Yet the Sisters are a hardy and resourceful congregation, and I am confident that if anyone can find a way to attend to the children’s needs, the Poor Sisters will.” She turns to address her escort. “Also, I think it would be a good idea to contact the Englishman, Mr Joseph Whitaker of Palermo.”

  “At the Villa Malfitano? The Marsala wine family?” the Duca di Lantra asks.

  “Yes. I believe he is patron of the Palermo Home for Waifs and Strays. Let them know we will make a donation; we do not expect them to provide all the necessary funds. Perhaps they can take some of these orphans. See to it, please.”

  “At once, your majesty.”

  “Also, be so good as to furnish me with an apron,” she says, removing her gloves and rolling up her sleeves. “And before I lend my assistance to these over–pressed doctors and surgeons, I would like a word with Mrs Robertson in private, so would the three of you wait elsewhere. And please be so kind as to take young Lilla with you? Provide her with some food; poor thing doesn’t look as though she’s eaten in days.”

  The escort and lady–in–waiting exchange knowing looks, bow and retire.

  Obediently, Lilla follows them towards the door, the promise of food enlivening her limbs. However, as the sea of people crowding around them parts, she glances back at her guardian. Lilla’s is both a questioning look and, perhaps, an admission that she is reluctant to stray too far from the woman who has been her one constant of the last two days.

  “It’s all right, Lilla. You can come back as soon as Queen Elena and I have had our talk.”

  Chapter 20

&nbs
p; “You didn’t tell me you knew the queen.”

  “No,” Mrs Robertson snaps, “I didn’t. It doesn’t do to crow about one’s acquaintances, particularly when they happen to be royalty. Apart from that…” She is concentrating as she tries to peel back the dried and crusted clothing from the lacerated hip of a young boy who will not stop from crying.

  “Apart from that?”

  “Apart from that, you did not ask me.” She grimaces and applies more solution to the bloody cloth.

  “What is that smell?” Lilla asks.

  “Gangrene,” Mrs Robertson replies, her voice heavy with pessimism. “This poor dear must have been buried for a long time. He has pressure sores all over his upper torso, cellulitis in several places and his hips are in a shocking state. I think if he’s any chance, he must go to one of the naval ships for treatment. Lilla, you know which doctor is the one called Roselli?”

  She nods.

  “Well, be a good girl and go and ask him to come here. If he asks why, tell him what I’ve just told you. Tell him also that I think this boy’s hip bones may be fractured; there has to be a reason he’s in so much pain. Go on, quickly now.”

  When she returns, she says Dottore Roselli is overloaded with patients and that he will come as soon as he has finished what he is doing.

  “I wonder when that will be,” Mrs Robertson grumbles.

  For the first time since she has met the English nurse, Lilla notices the irritation of fatigue creeping into her tone. “I am tired, too,” she says.

  “In that case, Lilla, you stay here and do your best to distract this one from his discomfort while I go and press his case with the proper authorities.”

  Mrs Robertson is gone far too long for Lilla’s comfort and whilst in her care the young boy grows delirious.