Tears of Autumn, The

by Wiltshire, David

  Little old women dressed in black haggled as they felt and tested the fruit and vegetables beneath the picturesque and peeling walls of old sun-drenched town houses and apartments. And everywhere there were churches.

  Horses, carts, and motor cars clogged the narrow streets, but every now and then the shimmering blue water of the Bay of Naples showed between the buildings.

  He noticed the gardens, growing all sorts of vegetables, and with vines curling around little trellised terraces. Obviously the heart of every Italian town-dweller still belonged in the country.

  And then he saw a group of stern-looking men on the corner of a junction. Il Duce’s men in their black shirts and ties, silver collar patches and grey-green trousers, topped by black fezzes with tassels. Somehow it didn’t seem to chime with the sunny disposition of the Italians. Still, he had to admit the trains were spotless and ran on time, just as everybody had said, and the streets were very clean. From their carriage window they’d seen a huge straight road near Naples which had been built by Mussolini for the ever growing number of cars. He’d heard about autobahns, as they were called in Germany. Some said there was a military purpose behind them.

  Eventually they reached a wider square from which roads led in all directions. Here were larger restaurants with outdoor tables, partly under cover, as in Paris, with shady Roman pine trees in abundance. It was the centre of Sorrento, the Piazza Tasse. The taxi swung through a gateway flanked by large stone columns and open wrought-iron gates. Biff just caught a glimpse of a sign bearing the name of the hotel in gold-coloured lettering. He squeezed her hand. ‘Here we are, darling.’

  The long, straight driveway led them through five acres of golden orange groves and bright flowers before opening into a wide turning circle dominated by pine trees, and, framed by the deep-blue sea behind it, a magnificent nineteenth-century building, its large windows adorned with green louvred shutters.

  The car drew to a halt before the main entrance. Immediately a uniformed commissionaire came down the steps and opened Biff’s door as a porter in a similarly coloured jacket made a beeline for the back of the vehicle with his barrow.

  Biff stepped out and was greeted with a salute and a ‘Buon giorno, signore.’

  He nodded and smiled as he turned and held out his hand to help Rosemary as she slid across the leather of the back seat.

  She stood up, blinking in the strong sunlight, and gazed at the façade of the hotel.

  ‘Biff, it’s just beautiful.’

  He paid the driver and started up the steps with her.

  ‘This is where Enrico Caruso stayed in 1921.’

  ‘Did Queen Victoria come – is that why it’s called Victoria?’

  He shrugged. ‘No idea, but we can ask. Certainly the British have been staying here for years. Edward VII came in 1910.’

  They entered a cool hallway with a floor of blue and white marble squares which now had a worn, aged look that added to the feeling of elegance. Two huge porcelain jars flanked the reception desk. To the left a grand staircase led up to a landing where a large statue from classical antiquity stood in an alcove, the cream walls decorated with frescoes of heraldic and Grecian designs.

  They reached the reception desk, made of dark mahogany. A man in a black coat and stripped trousers came forward to greet them.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Banks? My name is Georgio Catino. I am the manager and may I personally welcome you to the Victoria.’

  Biff took the proffered hand, followed by Rosemary, who said: ‘Thank you. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you, signora. I hope you had a good journey?’

  Biff nodded. ‘Yes. Your trains are excellent.’

  Catino beckoned a clerk forward to attend to them.

  It was then that Biff noticed another man at the back of the reception area in a dark suit. He seemed to be paying them an inordinate amount of attention – actually staring at them.

  Catino noticed that Biff was frowning and said quickly: ‘We shall need to keep your passports for a day or so, and you need to fill in these rather large forms, I’m afraid. Modern travel is so much more complicated than it used to be, is it not?’

  He said it apologetically.

  Biff handed over their stiff-covered dark-blue passports.

  The clerk took them and turned away as Biff started to fill in the rather detailed form, which he found irritating. The manager realized this and fussed around, trying to help.

  Biff looked up to ask Rosemary something and noticed that the man in the dark suit was already studying their passports, looking up occasionally in their direction, then resuming his study. Biff realized he must be with immigration or the frontier police, or something official.

  He glowered. ‘Is everything all right?’

  The man eyed him before replying: ‘I see you are a pilot, Mr Banks.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘What do you fly?’

  ‘Aeroplanes.’ Biff didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice, but he wondered if they were going to get on to the fact that he was in the Royal Air Force – a military pilot.

  Suddenly the man snapped the passport shut and unexpectedly grinned.

  ‘You are on your honeymoon, I believe?’

  Frowning, Biff said: ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

  Still smiling, but retaining the passports, the man nodded at Rosemary.

  ‘Such a beautiful young lady. Obviously much in love. I hope you have a wonderful time in our country. I think you will be impressed by what you see. Il Duce has made great changes.’

  With that he gave a little bow, turned on his heel and went through a door in the back.

  Catino was visibly relieved.

  Biff asked, ‘Who was that?’

  The manager looked uncomfortable. ‘Signore Franchetti of the Milizia di Frontiera – one of II Duce’s men.

  Biff nodded. ‘I see. A major, no less.’

  He knew the rank structure of the Blackshirts from a RAF briefing.

  Catino gestured with his hands towards the staircase.

  ‘Yes, yes. Now, let me show you to your room.’ His face beamed. ‘If you have no objection we would like to offer you one of our top suites – at no extra charge,’ he added hurriedly.

  Biff was genuinely surprised.

  ‘Why, that’s awfully decent of you. Is there any reason?’

  ‘Because you are honeymooners, and besides, we don’t have as many visitors as we used to, so we have the room. Please, it will be my pleasure.’

  Impatient with Biff, Rosemary butted in.

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Catino. We are pleased to accept.’

  They followed the manager as he escorted them up the stairs and put the key in to one of a pair of double doors.

  ‘Here we are.’

  He opened the door and stood aside for them. Rosemary went first, and Biff almost bumped into her because she had stopped so abruptly.

  The room was large, with a painted ceiling depicting gods and goddesses being borne by chariots over fluffy clouds. The walls were covered in silk of a faint gold hue. Between two french windows draped in matching silk curtains was a white marble fireplace.

  Assorted sofas and chairs were placed around it, while a delicate writing bureau and chair were placed against the opposite wall. The marble floor was covered with two huge Persian rugs.

  ‘Good heavens.’ Rosemary found her voice. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Catino beamed, and opened another double door.

  ‘And this is your bedroom.’

  They followed him into another room, this time with no frescoes. The vast bed was set against one pale blue wall, which showed off the elaborate headboard. There was another marble fireplace, and a table and chairs in the style of Louis XVI, and rugs filled the room, with huge wardrobes and chests of drawers spaced around the walls.

  ‘Here is the bathroom.’

  Catino opened a concealed door and flicked on a light-switch.

  The honey-c
oloured marble was laid from floor to ceiling. Lights were reflected in the large mirrors above the two art deco basins.

  Rosemary just looked in, then said; ‘It’s sumptuous.’

  ‘I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. If there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Their luggage arrived. Two porters placed their cases on a table, Rosemary’s hatbox on the bed, and trunk in the corner.

  ‘Would you like a maid to unpack for you?’

  Rosemary chuckled. ‘No, that’s quite all right thank you. I like doing it myself.’

  ‘Of course.’

  After further pleasantries Catino withdrew. They looked at each other for a second, then Biff picked Rosemary up and swung her around as they laughed, then kissed.

  He said: ‘It’s wonderful, darling. We’ll remember this for the rest of our lives.’

  She agreed. ‘But why do you think they’ve done this?’

  He made for one of the french doors.

  ‘I expect it’s because fewer people are travelling with all this talk of war.’

  He threw open the doors and stepped out on to a large terrace, the stone balustrade marked at each end by a Roman bust.

  ‘Come and look at this.’

  The view was spectacular. The hotel was on a cliff edge so they were looking down on to the harbour some two to three hundred feet below, where a paddle steamer churned the water as it manoeuvred to head out to sea to Capri. Along to their right the cliff edge of Sorrento was solid with old hotels and buildings built right to the edge.

  Opposite, across the Bay of Naples loomed Europe’s only mainland volcano: Mount Vesuvius, looking quiescent in the haze.

  Hundreds of little sailing boats plied out of the harbour. The steamer sounded its siren several times, and began to make headway, leaving a white wake of foam in the deep blue which turned to clear sparkling green in the shadows. He put his arm around her as she came and stood beside him.

  ‘Isn’t that just marvellous?’ She placed her arm around him.

  ‘Darling, you can see why I wanted to come here now?’

  He gave her a squeeze as she added: ‘Thanks for putting up with the journey.’

  He smiled and kissed the side of her head. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by ancient Rome. We can visit Pompeii from here. You know about Pompeii, don’t you?’

  She scolded him.

  ‘Do you think we girls don’t get the same lessons as you boys? Do you think we get just cookery and Jane Austen?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She took his hand and led him back into the coolness of the room. There was no question about what she intended as she sat on the bed and kicked off her shoes.

  ‘Well, husband, to your duty.’

  Biff still couldn’t get over her lack of shyness. Even on their second attempt at being married he had been fumbling all over the place until Rosemary had taken positive action and guided him into her – digging her nails into his back as she winced, just the once.

  It was only now that he was beginning to realize that an educated, horse-loving woman of the thirties was not like the girls he had dreamed about.

  So he ran his hand boldly up her leg and under her skirt to the top of her stocking, and on over her smooth skin and suspender.

  Rosemary suddenly reached up and pulled him down on to her.

  Clothes went in all directions and he barely made it before he was fusing with her body in a violent, energetic thrusting that had her hanging on to him with her legs as if she was out with the hounds.

  When at last he rolled off her she was up in a flash, kissing him and ruffling his hair, and giggling like a schoolgirl as she slipped out of the rest of her clothes, trailing them on the floor, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  He heard the shower running as she hummed a tune.

  Biff Banks felt as if he’d been biffed.

  He lay looking up at the ceiling, at the pattern of light dappling the cornices. What a wonderful thing marriage was, and how lucky he was. Rosemary was beautiful, talented and incredibly sensuous. What more could a man ask for? The sound of the shower ceased.

  She came back into the room with only a white towel wrapped around her, shaking her hair free from the cap she had been wearing.

  ‘God, that was terrific. It’s so hot.’

  With that she went out on to the terrace. Biff, dressed only in his striped dressing-gown, took his cigarettes out to the table. Rosemary was leaning over the balustrade looking out across the bay.

  He frowned. ‘Darling – you’re not dressed,’ he warned.

  She turned. Laughed.

  ‘You’re such a fuddy duddy.’

  With that she let the towel fall, and popped into the chair beside him, took one of his cigarettes and crossed her legs.

  ‘Light me up, please, darling.’

  Biff’s jaw dropped.

  ‘My God, woman.’

  He looked wildly around, but realized with relief that where they were, it would be difficult for her to be seen. He looked back at her again, at her small breasts dazzling in the bright light, at the golden freckles that wound down her arms and legs and at her painted toes. It was both erotic and surreal, as if one of the ornamental figures had come alive. She giggled and prompted:

  ‘The light, darling?’

  He flicked open his lighter top and at the second attempt applied the flame to the end of the cigarette. She took a long pull, sat back and breathed out smoke, making rings.

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Where, oh where, did you learn to do that?’

  She put her other arm across her chest to hold the elbow of the arm with the cigarette, pushing up her breasts.

  ‘Where else? School.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  He knew as soon as he said it that was a mistake.

  She looked back at him from under her half-closed, long eyelashes.

  ‘I hope you’ll think of something.’

  So he did. But she had to wait until that night.

  Everybody seemed to be looking at him.

  Then he realized that the high sheriff had said something about him, and they had all turned – clapping. He had not the slightest idea what had been said, but he got an inkling of what it might have been when the woman, still clapping, said in his ear,

  ‘Did the Queen put it on you herself?’

  She obviously meant the DFC he’d won in 1942. The fact that she thought the Queen had been the monarch then, he was quite resigned to. The appalling lack of knowledge about the history of their country and its geography, he had got used to many years ago. God only knew what they taught in schools these days.

  He just said ‘Yes,’ and dipped his head in acknowledgement to the high sheriff.

  The speech continued, was all about the wonderful people in the county – far more than the present incumbent had ever realized – who volunteered to do unpaid work in the community to help people of all ages, in health and sickness, to make their lives better. It was his opinion that the county would be a far poorer place without them.

  There was an enthusiastic response from the audience, and Biff receded thankfully into the background again. He didn’t like any allusion to the medal. He knew so many men more worthy, who had never made it to Buck House, or to the end for that matter, to see the final victory. Their resting places were unknown: they had died so that the nice young woman to his left could be so ignorant of the history of the country, if the country so wished.

  Biff couldn’t help wonder whether without their sacrifice, she might have been better educated – in German history.

  German history.…

  Chapter Five

  They’d been there for two days, doing nothing in particular, just taking the sun on the hotel’s pontoons at the foot of the cliff, swimming in the clear blue-green water, looking at the seabed with its colourful fish and plants,
and generally resting after their journey.

  On the third day they decided to go to Pompeii, to the Roman ruins and the continuing excavations.

  The hotel had arranged taxis as several people were going.

  When they gathered in the entrance hall there was a gentleman wearing an old-fashioned canvas jacket and waistcoat with spats on his shoes, striped trousers, and sporting a monocle, and several elderly ladies without escorts – widows of the Great War no doubt. About eight other people – couples – were there also, some they had seen around the hotel, had even become on nodding terms with at breakfast.

  One couple was standing to one side.

  Rosemary smiled at the woman who smiled back. Biff didn’t really want to join up with anybody, especially as they looked English. The man was wearing a double-breasted dark-blue blazer, with short, high lapels, and six brass buttons down the front, done up.

  His cravat was in a dark maroon that complimented his rather racy pink shirt. Grey flannels completed his kit.

  Biff felt a little scruffy. Because of the possibility of its being a hot day he wore his blue shirt with its wide collar outside his rather crumpled summer jacket, and with his white cricket bags as trousers.

  The girl, though, he had to admit, was a stunner, dressed in a light summer frock, rather like Rosemary’s, but it seemed to be in a very risqué material: he fancied he caught sight of the outline of her legs when she stepped into a ray of sunlight.

  He pulled Rosemary gently away towards the reception desk.

  ‘I need to ask about the passports.’

  She was puzzled.

  ‘Why? They’ll give them back when they’re ready.’

  ‘You don’t want to get involved, do you?’ he hissed. ‘They could be as boring as hell. He looks like some flash chap from the City who wants to tell us how much he earned last year.’

  Rosemary shook her head.

  ‘No, she looks really nice to me – and he is obviously an outdoor type. You’re just being miserable.’

  He knew she was right.

  The man in the old-fashioned kit suddenly clapped his hands and called out: