Wait For the Dawn

by Jess Foley

  Guy’s lips were strong but soft against her own, and when at last he drew back his head from her, she felt the coolness of the evening air upon her face again, and she sat there beside him on the red plaid rug with her mouth slightly open, still held in his embrace, looking at his handsome face, now alight with passion. She felt as if she were in a dream. Could any of it be real? He kissed her again, and this time she felt the urgency of his pressure even greater than before so that her lips parted beneath his own parted lips and she felt the wetness of his tongue, so sweet, so sweet, upon her own. Without any urging on his part, she found that she was being lowered backwards onto the rug, and that he was lying above her, smothering her mouth, her face, with his kisses.

  She knew enough from her life in the country to know where such things could lead, and all her life she had heard hints and warnings about such dangerous situations, but such warnings did not come to her now, or if they came they hovered only at the edge of her consciousness and then melted away, defeated. She heard Guy murmuring little sounds of endearment as he held her to him, and she wanted to say in return, I love you, I love you, but she kept the words within herself and let herself be swept away by the kisses that came upon her mouth, upon her face, and – even as the knowledge touched her – upon her breast. She felt intoxicated, and although a little of the sensation came from the wine she had drunk, even more, far more, she was engulfed and enraptured by the feeling of his dear nearness, the closeness of him, the touch of his skin upon her own. How long they lay there she did not know, she would never know, but the birds sang and sang, and from somewhere over to the side there came the sound of Tess snorting and pawing at the turf. Lydia’s hair became unpinned and fell down, and, unbraided, swept across her naked breast and touched Guy’s cheek as he bent his head to kiss her. The moments, the seconds, the minutes fled past in a whirl of little gasps and breaths and cries, and strange, unaccustomed touches and sensations. There was the urgent fumbling of fingers at her clothing, the feel of the cooling air upon her naked flesh; and now his hardness, first against the softness of her palm, her fingertips, and then against her thighs, and moving up within her; and as she gasped again, now with a fleeting, strange pain, she was pinned there by his lips, and clung to him as for dear life, and against it all the birds continued to sing out their evensong, and the wild roses and the elder blossoms drenched the air with their scent.

  Afterwards, they pulled on their clothes without looking at one another. Lydia found herself moving hurriedly, while at the same time trying to affect an air of being in control. When she had dressed and done up the last button she tidied her hair after a fashion and tucked it up and pinned on her hat. As she glanced down, smoothing her skirt, she saw that there was a trace of blood on the rug; it hardly showed against the red-based plaid, but she could see it nevertheless. In the same moment as she stood looking at it, her breath almost taken by the sight, she realised that Guy had seen it too, and seeing it he raised his head and looked at her, and she thought she saw in his eyes a brief flash of regret, and a question, a wondering whether she felt regret too. She at once felt tears threaten to spill from her eyes, and she fought them back. It’s done, she wanted to say, ‘it’s done, and I love you, and I have no regrets just so long as you have none, but she said nothing, only held his glance for a moment and then looked away again. After another second they heard a distant shout from across the water, one young boy yelling to another. The children were back, and suddenly Lydia became aware of the enormity of what had taken place. The step she had taken. She put her hands up to her collar, checking that it was buttoned. ‘We must go,’ she said. ‘I must get back.’

  PART TWO

  Chapter Eleven

  There was a pigeon walking back and forth along the windowsill, and Guy idly watched it. Beyond the bird’s bobbing head the stone and brick of Florence stretched as far as he could see beneath the azure Italian sky. The walls within which he waited were all white, their monochrome relieved only by the blue and gold effigy of the crucified Christ that hung above the Sister’s chair. Guy stood with his hat in his hand, and sweat on his brow. He had not long since arrived from England. It was four in the afternoon and the heat was oppressive. Most of the city was still at siesta, but he had come here to the hospital to see his father, straight from the railway station, stopping only at the apartment on the Via Rosso to leave his travel bag.

  Footsteps sounded on the tiles and the blue and white clad figure of the nun came into view, descending steps and moving towards him.

  ‘Per favore, signor. Please, come this way.’ Her English words were heavily accented with her native Italian.

  He followed her up the stone stairs to the next floor, where she led the way along a corridor. At the second door she came to a halt. ‘Your father, he is in here.’ She opened the door and Guy thanked her and stepped past her into the room.

  As the door closed behind him he took in with a glance the scene before him: his mother rising from a chair beside his father’s bed, her arms already reaching out; the room small, all white, and with nothing on the walls apart from a crucifix.

  ‘Guy!’ His mother spoke the word broken on a whimper, moving to meet him and wrap her arms about him. She kissed him on the cheek, and as she did so he saw that there were tears in her eyes. ‘Thank heaven you got here,’ she murmured.

  ‘I set off first thing yesterday morning,’ he said.

  He released his mother and moved past her to his father who lay on his back, his legs protected by a kind of cage that kept the weight of the bedclothes off him. Guy bent low and took his father’s raised hands in his own. ‘Oh, Father! Father, how are you?’ He was shocked at the sight of him; he looked so slight, so vulnerable lying there.

  ‘I’m better now – seeing you here,’ the old man said. His voice sounded unusually gruff, and tears shone in his eyes.

  ‘Take this chair,’ his mother said, pushing towards him the one in which she had been sitting. ‘I’ll take the other.’ As Guy sat down she moved around the bed to a second chair that stood on the opposite side.

  ‘Oh, it’s so good you’re here,’ his father said. ‘I’ve been willing the time to pass.’

  ‘I got here as soon as I could,’ Guy said. He patted his father’s mottled hand as it lay on the coverlet, the bony wrist emerging from the sleeve of his nightshirt. Mr Anderson was seventy-two years old now. His hair, silver grey, seemed to be thinner than ever, and Guy thought he had never before been so aware of the lines that furrowed his brow and cheeks. What was so especially shocking, however, was the bruising. Across his nose, and across his forehead there were great yellowing bruises, where the skin was also abraded. Guy sucked in his breath at the sight of them. How frail his father appeared now that he was in this great distress, and how pathetic in this small hospital room so far away from home.

  ‘What happened?’ Guy asked, and turned to his mother. ‘All you said in the wire was that there had been an accident – a fall.’ He looked back to his father, who gave a deep sigh and wearily shook his head. ‘Oh, son, I can’t go into it right now. I haven’t got the energy. Your mother will tell you everything you have to know.’ He turned to his wife. ‘The boy must be thirsty and hungry. Anne, dear, take him for some coffee and something to eat.’

  ‘No, really, I –’ Guy began to protest, but his father languidly raised his hand and said, ‘Go with your mother, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Please. I’m in no state to exert myself.’ A faint smile fleetingly touched the old man’s mouth. ‘Don’t make me try.’

  ‘Come on, Guy,’ Mrs Anderson said. ‘There’s a caffè in the square. We’ll only be away a little while.’

  Guy got up from the chair, gently pressed his father’s hand on the coverlet and said, ‘We’ll be back soon, Father.’ Then he turned and followed his mother from the room.

  At the foot of the stairs they crossed the vestibule and went out into the piazza, oppressively hot i
n the afternoon sun. In a fountain in the centre water gushed from the mouths of stone dolphins and two children played, paddling in the cool water in the basin. Mrs Anderson took her son’s arm and they turned to the left and walked along at the side in the shade. ‘It’s just along here,’ she said.

  The caffè was situated just fifty yards or so from the hospital entrance, with tired-looking shrubs in tubs beside the doorway. Guy and his mother turned and went into the shaded interior and took a table near one of the windows.

  ‘I’ve been here a couple of times during the day,’ Mrs Anderson said. ‘When I needed some coffee or some tea. I don’t like to ask the nuns; they’ve got so much to do. Though I’m sure they’d be only too willing.’

  When the waiter came to them they ordered coffee, and Mrs Anderson said to Guy, ‘Don’t you want something to eat? Aren’t you hungry? Come on – we’ve got time.’

  After a moment’s hesitation Guy nodded and ordered a plate of cold meats with olives, tomatoes and coarse bread. The waiter went away with the order, and Mrs Anderson watched him go, then said:

  ‘Did you go to the apartment first with your bags?’

  ‘Yes. The maid was there. She told me you were here and directed me.’

  She nodded. ‘Amelia – she’s a good girl.’ She paused then went on, ‘Your father finds it distressing, hearing it all spoken of in front of him – his accident – and he can hardly bear to talk about it himself.’

  Mrs Anderson was sixty-eight years old. She was a handsome woman, a little taller than average, and with hair, although grey, still thick and luxuriant. She wore a dove grey linen travelling suit with a pale blue blouse, and a hat of a dark grey, soft felt, decorated with small feathers. As she spoke she gazed at Guy with her affection barely hidden, an affection she had never tried to hide, that of a mother for a dearly-loved son.

  ‘So, what happened?’ Guy said.

  His mother’s voice was grave as she answered him. ‘We were coming from the apartment,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t wait for the elevator. You know how impatient he can get. That lift is enough to drive anyone crazy at the best of times, but this time his patience gave out.’ She paused, then added with a shrug and a little shake of the head, ‘And – he fell.’

  ‘He fell.’

  ‘He tripped somehow, and he went from top to bottom of the stairs. I saw it all.’ Suddenly the memory of it appeared too much for her to take; as she went to speak again her voice cracked and she gasped, and tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, Mother . . .’ Guy reached across the table and put his hand on her wrist.

  She patted his hand with her free hand, then took a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her bag. ‘It’s all right. I just can’t seem to get over it. The shock.’ She sat there for a moment looking down, her lips compressed, as if willing herself to stay in control. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  The waiter came to the table with the coffee and set the cups down before them. When he had gone away again, Mrs Anderson took up a spoon and stirred the coffee.

  ‘How bad were his injuries?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Very bad. Both legs were broken, his right leg in three places.’

  ‘Dear God.’

  ‘They’ve done their best to set the bones, but they fear the right leg might be just too badly mangled to do it satisfactorily.’ She put a hand up to her mouth. ‘Oh, Guy, it was dreadful. The bones were sticking through the flesh. I couldn’t bear to look at it. I sent a messenger for the doctor – he’s a Scotsman, MacElroy; he looks after so many of the British in the city – and he came quite quickly, but it seemed to take forever for the ambulance to arrive. If your father ends up having to walk with sticks I don’t know what he’ll do. He’s such an active man. He’ll hate being slowed down in any way.’ The tears were flowing freely now, and periodically she dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘He’s been so brave,’ she went on. ‘He hasn’t complained.’ She allowed herself a small, rueful smile. ‘Only about the hospital food. Ah, but he’s such a good man, and he works so hard. The irony is, that we came out here so that he could sell up the business, and get a little more time to himself. He’s got enough to do with the newspaper. He knows you won’t want anything to do with it – the textile business here, I mean. Anyway, at his age he should be doing far less – and he’d just about realised and accepted that this was the situation, and then this – this terrible thing has to happen.’

  The waiter came back to the table, set down a plate in front of Guy, then went away again. Guy looked at the food, the neat, round little cuts of meat, the dark olives and the large slices of tomato, and pushed the plate an inch away. He had no appetite. His mother seemed to be growing a little calmer. ‘Eat something, Guy,’ she murmured. ‘You must eat, my dear. You won’t do any good by going without.’

  ‘I’m not that hungry, Mother.’

  She gave a little shake of her head, as if it were unimportant. ‘Thank God you came,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t been able to.’

  ‘Of course I came.’

  ‘Well, it’s a great comfort to your father, your being here, and to me too, of course. Your father’s been longing to see you.’ She touched the side of the plate with her fingertips. ‘Do eat something.’

  Reluctantly Guy pulled the plate a little nearer and forced himself to eat. As he did so, his mother said, ‘No, your father doesn’t care for the hospital food, so I tried having some food brought in from one of the nearby restaurants, but he has no appetite, so it didn’t make much difference. I tell him he has to keep his strength up.’

  Guy picked at the food for a few minutes, then signalled to the waiter to bring the bill. ‘We must go back,’ he said to his mother.

  He had managed to change some English currency at the railway station, and when the bill was brought he counted out the lire.

  Back at the hospital they sat on either side of Mr Anderson’s bed, and so they remained for another hour, until one of the nuns came to tell them they must leave, and that they could come back in the morning.

  *

  At the apartment on the Via Rosso, Guy bathed and changed his clothes. Afterwards, the cook-housekeeper, who had already unpacked his bag and put away his things, prepared a meal for them, and Guy and his mother sat picking at their food in the dining room overlooking the street.

  Later, about ten o’clock, he kissed his mother on the cheek and went to bed. Lying there in the dark he thought of his father’s grave condition, and felt anxious to get back to see him the next day. If his father should end up crippled it would surely have a devastating effect upon the old man, and if he should be seriously disabled there could be no doubt that so much more responsibility would fall upon Guy’s shoulders.

  Just before he went to sleep he thought back over the previous days, from the time of receiving his mother’s wire to his arrival in the Italian city – and somewhere in all that rush of activity had been his meeting with Lydia. How far away that all seemed right now.

  That week with Lydia had gone so fast, he thought. How could it have gone so swiftly? The walk in the park, the visit to the theatre, the dinner at the inn in the country, the picnic by the lake. Yes, the picnic by the lake. He had little happiness in his memories of that, particularly when thinking of what had happened at the very end. Now that he looked back on it, everything had happened too fast. Of course he had been so attracted to her; how could he not have been? But had it been a feeling deeper than that? So much had happened in such a short space of time, and he seemed unable to grasp the reality of his feelings. She was a beautiful, personable girl – but their very closeness at the end now left him feeling guilty and a little resentful. Resentful, perhaps, because the happening had inspired his guilt, and guilt is always difficult to suffer. He had not meant for it all to go so far, he was aware of that, and now he was touched with remorse. Had he compromised her situation? Was he getting in too deep? He recalled, too, seeing the blood
stain on the rug. If he had thought about it he would have known that she’d had no experience, but he had not allowed himself to ponder on such things. Instead, he had let himself be swept up in the delicious, captivating thrill of the moment, and now it was too late; nothing could be done. He could not go back and rewrite the tale. And so what now? Well, he had told Lydia that he would write, and so he would. He would write to her as soon as he got the chance. There would be time enough in the next few days.

  In her room in Redbury, Lydia lay in her narrow bed and thought of Guy, and wondered whether he had arrived safely at his destination, and how he had found his father. With luck Mr Anderson would soon recover, and Guy would be able to return. In the meantime he would be writing to her. She prayed he would. He had said he would. She would wait to hear . . .

  On Wednesday morning, as soon as visitors were permitted, Guy and his mother returned to the hospital in the piazza. There in the vestibule the senior nurse told them in her halting English that Mr Anderson had not slept well, due to the pain in his legs, particularly the right one. He had been given chloral hydrate to help deaden the pain, she said, and after a time he had managed to sleep.