Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  She looks around for someone to help her, but all are taken up with their own individual tales of woe.

  “Forgive me, my beautiful boy,” she whispers in his ear, “I don’t know how to be a mother. I don’t know what’s right to do.”

  He looks up, pleading: his eyelashes long and lustrous, his perfectly round face shining pale beneath grey streaks of dried mud and ash. A sheen of sweat glistens at his brow. He shivers.

  Lilla pulls him to her young breasts and tenderly kisses his mop of unruly dark curls. He is in some way familiar to her, but she cannot place him. Right now, in this cold, damp and foul–smelling warehouse, Lilla isn’t confident she can recall what anyone ever looked like: not her parents, her sisters nor Enzo. All the faces she summons to mind seem either strangely obscured by woodsmoke or brick dust, or twisted unrecognisably with intense pain.

  The boy shivers again, though this time his action is more convulsion than shiver. He is burning up, the infection seeping through his body the way tiredness is now seeping through hers.

  She lays him down and climbs up on the cot beside him, cuddling him close, cradling his head, draping her free arm over his shallow chest, both protecting him and warming herself in the latent heat of his fever.

  “Oh, please come back soon, Mrs Robertson,” she mutters. “Please hurry.” And with that last hope in her mind, Lilla falls helplessly and deeply asleep.

  A hand squeezes her shoulder; guilt hisses in her ear, “How long have you been asleep?”

  “Lilla? Wake up. Come on, Lilla, wake up now.” Mrs Robertson is standing tall over her. “Quickly now. Up off that cot and go and find Dottore Roselli again. Tell him I’ll be over to see him in a minute or two. Tell him he’s not to interrupt what he’s doing. I’ll explain all when I see him.”

  “Why? I… You said I…”

  “Yes, girl, never mind what I said, just do as I ask. Off you go. Quickly now.”

  Lilla doesn’t question, there is an urgency to the woman’s order, an obduracy in her insistence similar to that of the queen when she asked her lady–in–waiting to leave her so that she could talk with Mrs Robertson in private.

  The good Dottore Roselli is a slender man, his wispy hair prematurely grey, his glasses seemingly round and small compared to his considerable nose; and his demeanour is that of a man who is exasperated by being asked so many questions for which he has no answers. When Lilla tries to speak to him, he ignores her for a full minute, so she tugs at his elbow.

  “Yes? What is it you want?” he says, gruffly. His knee–length smock is stained red with the blood of his many patients. “Can’t you see I’m busy.”

  “Of course, doctor. Everyone is busy,” she replies a little rudely. “I have a message from Mrs Robertson?”

  Briefly, he sucks his teeth in exasperation. “Go on, then. Deliver your message. What does Prudence Robertson want you to tell me that’s so important?”

  “Prudence?” Lilla repeats.

  He does not turn to address her; he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the stomach of the old woman lying supine before him. “Yes, Prudence. Now what is so important?”

  “Mrs Robertson says you are not to interrupt what you are doing and that she will come in a minute or two to explain all to you.”

  “Ah, I see.” The good and seemingly tireless doctor softens. He hesitates and turns to Lilla. Removing his glasses, he stares down either side of his broad and slightly crooked nose. His eyes, though slowed by tiredness, exude compassion in abundance rather than frustration. “In that case… What is your name, child?”

  “Lilla. Lilla Lunapiena.”

  “And what a very beautiful picture your name paints. You must be the young lady everyone is talking about. It appears that you dress wounds as well if not better than some of the trained nurses. Can this be true?”

  Lilla is quietly surprised that one supposedly so busy is setting aside the time to engage her in conversation. “Mrs Robertson is a good tutor.”

  “Oh yes, she is,” Dottore Roselli says, smiling, his thoughts drifting. “She certainly is. However, that is only to be expected, isn’t it?”

  “To be expected. What do you mean to be expected?”

  Oblivious to the needs of his patient, the doctor ponders for a moment, before lowering his head in a conspiratorial manner and in a hushed voice replying, “Clearly, you have no idea what or who you are dealing with, do you, young lady?”

  Lilla shrugs, “No. I didn’t even know until you told me that her name is Prudence. All I know is that she’s been caring for an old lady who lived on Isola Bella and that the queen knows her.”

  He chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, Lilla, you put your words together so wisely, for that is how it is with kings and queens. It is the etiquette of the court that they are permitted to know you. You, on the other hand, are not really supposed to know them. Am I making myself clear?”

  “So why? I mean, how does the queen know Mrs Robertson?”

  “Because, young lady, your Mrs Robertson was governess to the Queen’s first two children. You didn’t know this?”

  “To Princesses Yolanda and Mafalda?”

  The doctor winks and raises his finger to his lips. “Precisely. But that’s a secret between you and me, eh Lilla? Just between you and me, now, eh?”

  “But what harm is there in people knowing?”

  “Prudence is a very private person and she believes, as all of us doctors do, that the intimate details of people’s personal lives are of no concern to others. Now, does this basic concept rest easily with you or are you one of those who likes to stick her nose into people’s private business?”

  An image of the doctor sticking his considerable beak in people’s private business leaps into Lilla’s mind and she chuckles.

  “What is so amusing?”

  Lilla is, though, embarrassed by her vulgar imagining and in order to avoid answering asks, “Why was Mrs Robertson not governess for Prince Umberto?”

  The doctor considers for a moment, no doubt weighing whether he will be breaking his oath to Hippocrates by replying. “When the Prince of Piedmont was born, Queen Elena asked King Vittorio for permission to nurse the infant; something of a departure from the manner in which previous royal siblings had been brought up. The king believed, quite correctly, that his successor would be stronger and healthier if he was nursed by his own mother, and that the young Prince Umberto would be more inclined to take on some of his mother’s gentler qualities. Mrs Robertson was not one to disagree, and whether she disagreed or not, it was correct for her to find employment elsewhere.”

  Lilla is hypnotised by the doctor’s account and her eyelids grow heavy, as they would when her mother told her stories at bedtime. “Does she not have a family of her own?”

  His smile is warm and delightfully paternal. “No and yet yes. Mrs Robertson has no children to call her own and yet she is a mother of sorts. From what I have seen of her and from all that I have heard, I am sure she would, given the opportunity, make a wonderful mother.”

  The old woman on the cot groans, as if to suggest she is more deserving of the doctor’s attention than the young girl he seems so taken with.

  Dottore Roselli stands up straight and looks out over the sea of cots. When he is happy that he has located what or whoever it was he was searching for, he nods and turns back to Lilla. “Now, young lady, I must attend to my patient’s needs and you must continue with your work. I am sure Prudence will be grateful for your continued and very professional assistance. Of you go, now, and remember what I said.”

  “Yes,” Lilla says. “Thank you, doctor. And thank you for all you are doing for us.”

  He smiles that warm, fatherly smile once more. “This is what I am here for, Lilla, to help those who cannot help themselves. This is why I am here.”

&nbs
p; The good doctor’s words hold fast in Lilla’s mind as she jostles her way through the throng of sick and injured.

  When Lilla arrives at the cot, the boy has disappeared and Mrs Robertson is treating a new child, a three or perhaps four–year–old girl with a badly swollen ankle. The girl breathes too rapidly, her pupils are the size of black saucers and her skin is cold, clammy and ashen in colour.

  “Find me another blanket, please, this poor girl is in shock. Two if you can. And make sure they’re dry.”

  “Yes, at once,” Lilla replies, taking a quick look round and spotting a vacant cot on the other side of theirs. Quickly, naturally and without drawing attention, she collects the blankets, checks they are dry and folds them around the girl’s shoulders. When she looks up for some recognition that she has done what she has been asked, she notices Mrs Robertson’s cheeks are damp and her eyes watery.

  Lilla hesitates, coming to realise that she doesn’t need to ask about the boy because he must have died in her arms and the reason the older woman sent her away to find the Dottore was so that she wouldn’t know and therefore wouldn’t be upset. That, at the expense of her own emotions, Mrs Robertson should want to protect Lilla from hers, touches Lilla so profoundly that her heart threatens to burst out of her chest with love for the woman who has so readily taken her under her wing. She makes to say so until she is interrupted by a voice in her head that reminds her of the woman’s down–to–earth nature and she decides that perhaps it is, for the moment, in both their better interests if she doesn’t mention her growing love for her guardian.

  “This ankle requires a cold compress,” Mrs Robertson declares. “Lilla, take this roll of bandages outside and soak it in rainwater. I can’t tell if the ankle’s broken and there’s not much we can do without one of those new–fangled shadowgram machines I keep reading about. We’ll keep the foot elevated and let the doctors have a look at it when the swelling’s reduced.”

  A short while later, Mrs Robertson suggests they need to take a rest and get some food.

  On board the naval ships, the cooks are working overtime in their galleys baking bread and biscuits, and tenders shuttle the badly needed supplies ashore. Survivors scavenge amid the broken crates of fruit that have been tossed like unwanted children’s toys along the marina, and sailors in blue jackets line the quayside doling out carefully measured rations of fresh water.

  Lilla and Mrs Robertson sit sheltered from the wind and rain beneath an awning, while they see to the grumbling of their stomachs.

  “Dottore Roselli said your first name is Prudence,” Lilla mumbles as she munches on a chunk of white bread.

  “Did he now?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is my given name. Not that I’m inclined to thank my parents for their fancy.”

  “Don’t you like it, then?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like it, Lilla. It’s just that it’s a bit pretentious, if I’m honest.” The thought makes her chuckle.

  “He told me you were governess to Princess Yolanda and Princess Mafalda, and that’s how you know the queen.”

  Mrs Robertson’s laughing fades. “Well, he’s right about that; though I’m not sure what business it is of his to go crowing about my place.”

  “He also said you were a mother of sorts.” Lilla watches for her reaction to the doctor’s assessment of her character.

  “Well, I have too many years behind me to be a mother now. That’s all done and finished with.”

  A silence, not unpleasantly imbued with sadness, falls between them.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but what did you and the queen talk about?”

  Mrs Robertson ceases her chewing and fixes Lilla with a surprised stare. “My, you’re not as green as you are cabbage–looking, as we say.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means, Lilla, that you aren’t as naïve as people might at first think you are. Though why I say that when I’ve only known you painted in mud and ash, dressed in rags and struggling like everyone else to survive in this upturned world, is anybody’s guess.”

  The silence returns until the older woman decides it is right to break it.

  “Queen Elena asked me about your family situation. The good lady was interested to know why you were with me and not with friends of your family.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “The truth, in your words. I repeated that you are all alone in the world, as are so many young children.”

  “I’m hardly a child, Mrs Robertson. I’m nearly sixteen.”

  “Yes, but you are alone and as we’ve already witnessed, this is no place for a young lady without a family to protect her. And by that I don’t necessarily mean the criminals who are wandering the street. This dreadful episode will no doubt attract the more unscrupulous members of society in just the way bees are attracted to honey. It’s inevitable. It’s the less agreeable way of the world.”

  “But I have my people. Not all the fishermen will have been taken by the great wave. Zio Pipo will look after me. Remember, my father was a father to many in the same way that the queen is a mother to all. The fishermen will not forget that, however poor they are or however many mouths they have to feed.”

  Prudence Robertson nods, thoughtfully. “Yes, I had thought that. They are fine people; they measure wealth differently from others. Yet the queen put an idea into my head and I have given it a good deal of thought.”

  The silence returns until it is Lilla’s turn to break it.

  “Are you going to share the queen’s idea with me? Or is that what Dottore Roselli described as her business and so something you would rather keep to yourself?”

  “No, Lilla,” Prudence turns and putting her arms around her young charge, she pulls her to her ample bosom in much the same way Lilla had the dying boy. “What Queen Elena suggested concerns you as much as it does me, and I will tell you as long as you promise me you will consider what I have to say very carefully and not jump to any conclusion. If you promise me this, then I will tell you. What do you say? You are sufficiently intelligent to be able to think for yourself; that much I have learned about you in the short time we have been together.”

  Lilla plays dumb for a moment, wondering if, and in her heart hoping, that what she is about to hear will be what she has wanted to hear since she both met the older woman and understood that Enzo is not coming back to rescue her from all the horror and madness.

  “Yes, Mrs Robertson, I promise you I’ll think about whatever you say. You’ve been so kind to me already, how could I not do as you ask?”

  “And one more thing, I should be rewarded if you would call me Prudence when we are alone. I don’t care to be too familiar, so it might be best to address me formally when we’re in company. But when there’s just the two of us, I think it only right and proper that you should address me by the name friends call me. After all, that is what we have become, isn’t it? Friends.”

  “Yes, Mrs Robertson, I mean Prudence. Thank you, I will try to remember.”

  The older woman sighs, evidently preparing herself. “What the queen suggested was that I might like, if you agree, to adopt you; to take you back to England with me and to live with me as my daughter: to care for you, provide for you and see to your education. Lord knows there have been too many children orphaned by this dreadful earthquake.”

  Once again, Lilla’s heart threatens to burst from the confinement of its repressed emotions, and it is all she can do to prevent herself from blurting out that she would like to – no, love to – tie herself to the apron strings of the wonderful matronly soul who sits comforting her.

  “Can it really be so easy for you to adopt me?” she asks “Don’t you have to have permission from the authorities?”

  “Of course, I do. Fortunately for us the king and queen have brought with them Mr Orlando, the Minister
of Justice, and Mr Bertolini, the Minister for Public Works. She says that between them they should be able to see to the formalities and if needs be, she will ask the Duca di Lantra to speak to Sir Rennel Rodd, the British Ambassador in Rome.”

  “Does she really have that much power that she can decide what happens? Is it really so simple for others to decide what happens to people like me?”

  Prudence bridles her lips, contemplating. “Lilla, your parents are no longer here for you and you have not suggested that outside of your uncle Pipo there is anyone else to care for you. I am sure there will be a proper procedure to follow, some red tape that will have to be worked through. The queen,” she says, with a knowing look, “can be most persuasive. Don’t forget, she is a mother herself, so she understands what’s best for children.”

  “What’s best for me, you mean,” Lilla mutters, dreamily. And as she speaks her mind, a thought, a feeling, a curious anxiety begins to gnaw at her initial, impulsive desire: Enzo. She has seen his signet ring. It sits, alone, in her pocket and without thinking, she reaches in and toys with it, reacquainting herself with its cool texture, its curve and its permanence.

  Tears well in her eyes and very soon drip in great individual drops, which splash into her companion’s lap.

  “I know,” Prudence Robertson whispers. “It’s Enzo you are thinking of, isn’t it? And quite right you are too.”

  Lilla nods and more and heavier tears fall. “It makes no sense. Nothing. I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s just that I know for sure my family are all gone. You saw them and Pipo saw them. They are gone and if they weren’t, I know you and Pipo would not tell me such a lie. And while I could not be more heartbroken by their leaving me, I cannot bear to think that Enzo might still be suffering. Perhaps that terrible man was lying; he was the sort who would do that, if only to gain some pleasure from seeing someone else suffer. But I feel sure Enzo is still alive somewhere. I feel it in my heart. Please tell me I am right. Please.”

  “There, there.” Prudence caresses her head and hugs her tight, hoping to banish the sorrow from her. “I know this is difficult. I know it’s not easy. We have to make do with what we know. It’s all we can do.” She quiets for a while, absorbing Lilla’s tears, rocking her gently to calm her fear, wishing she had the power to mend her broken heart. “I tell you what, why don’t we ask some of these marines if they’ll go by your Enzo’s house and have a look for him. What do you say?”