Every Mother's Son

by Val Wood

  Daniel sighed. ‘You’re right. I’ve heard it too, and that’s progress. But I hope it won’t be yet awhile, or some of us will be out of a job.’ He looked at his uncle. ‘Do you miss England? Would you ever come back?’

  ‘I’ll come back to see you all as I promised,’ he said. ‘And especially to see your mother. I want to see where Harriet lives and meet her husband and your brothers and sisters so that when I return home to Italy – for this is my home now – I’ll be able to picture exactly where you are and what you’re doing.’ He turned to Beatrice. ‘And I hope to meet you and Charles again too, Beatrice.’

  She smiled. ‘Be sure that you will.’ She raised a questioning glance at Daniel.

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact,’ Daniel hummed and hawed, ‘I’ve, erm, I’ve been entrusted with a mission on Charles’s behalf as he feels it’s too soon to speak of it himself.’

  Leo let out a great bellow of a laugh. ‘Don’t tell me – he’s fallen in love with Calypso!’

  ‘It’s very obvious, isn’t it?’ Beatrice said. ‘But it is the very first time he has been in love.’

  ‘He’s completely smitten,’ Daniel added. ‘And I’ve been charged with advising you of his good and honourable intentions.’

  ‘He’s only known her five minutes,’ Leo bantered, ‘and she’s still a child, spoilt by me and her grandfather – a butterfly!’

  ‘That’s why he’s fallen in love with her,’ Beatrice told him. ‘He’s never met anyone like her, and Charles is so serious. She lightens up his life.’

  ‘Well,’ Leo said, ‘I didn’t expect this.’ He laughed again. ‘My little girl! But I suppose it’s something I must get used to.’

  ‘Charles wants to be ’first in ’queue,’ Daniel grinned. ‘And I heartily recommend him for my cousin Calypso.’

  They were ready to move off at six o’clock the following morning in time to catch the first ferry to Genoa. Leo was coming with them to the railway station. Calypso wanted to come too but her father refused, as he was staying in the city to conclude some business. She’d sulked, but Daniel had appeased her by saying that it wouldn’t be long before they met again.

  ‘Come up ’hillside and watch the train go past,’ he suggested. He’d checked out the rail system and seen that the train passed above or through all of the five villages, although it didn’t stop every day at all the stations. ‘We’ll look out for you.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ she said eagerly, her moodiness quickly disappearing. Daniel saw why her father called her a butterfly and wondered how Charles would cope with that if indeed they began a courtship.

  He said a tearful goodbye to Marco; both were emotional and Marco reminded him that he was not a young man so Daniel must return soon. ‘And bring Rosie too,’ he added. ‘Is she in good enough health to travel?’

  Daniel thought of Granny Rosie trudging up the hill to visit them at Dale Top Farm, which was not as steep as the hills on Vernazza, but replied that she was bonny and robust.

  Charles was very quiet on the ferry, and Daniel asked Beatrice whether he’d spoken to Calypso before they left.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘he did, and took her hand. She seemed to grow very still.’

  Is that all it takes, Daniel wondered. Just a simple gesture to tell someone you love them? Or do they already know, or are they unaware, no matter how long they’ve known someone? He looked back at Vernazza as the ferry pulled away. So much had happened in such a short time that it seemed impossible. Meeting his uncle Leo and discovering his grandfather, and most of all having Beatrice in such close proximity. This was something he would lock into his memory until he died.

  They had said goodbye to Leo at Genoa, and Daniel had noticed that Charles had shaken hands with Leo with a firm grip, although neither of them had mentioned Calypso. The small local train steamed along the coastal track towards Vernazza and La Spezia, the Mediterranean below them a shimmering, dazzling blue with dashing white-crested waves. They gathered by the window ready to wave to Calypso if she had climbed the mountain path as promised.

  ‘There she is,’ Charles shouted and waved a handkerchief, but Daniel’s gaze was on the white-haired old man waving his straw hat, whilst behind him two men stood with a sedan chair.

  ‘Look,’ he said, waving a hand but barely able to speak or see through his tear-filled eyes. ‘It’s Nonno! They’ve carried him up the mountain to say goodbye.’

  He felt a soft hand close over his. It was Beatrice’s, and she was smiling and weeping too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It was very late in the evening when they arrived in Rome, but it seemed that the Romans didn’t retire early to bed. The streets were thronging with people, either strolling along or sitting in their doorways chatting.

  ‘We must be careful,’ Charles said as they stood on the concourse wondering which direction to take. ‘There’s a good deal of poverty here and we probably look like rich foreigners.’

  ‘We are rich foreigners,’ Beatrice murmured, ‘in comparison with some of the people here.’

  ‘No wonder that so many are emigrating,’ Daniel said. ‘There are people without shoes on their feet!’

  Marco had told them of the vast emigration of the populace who had scraped together enough money to buy a ticket to America and look for a new life. Weary of the political upheaval that had reigned until Italian patriots Giuseppe Mazzini and Giuseppi Garibaldi spearheaded a revolution, thousands had left even before the unification of Italy, when Victor Emmanuel II was pronounced king a mere twenty years ago. In 1871 Rome was declared the capital of a united Italy and there came to be a kind of peace.

  Once more they looked for a café or trattoria where they could take refreshment and enquire about lodgings. They found one on the Via Giulia and ordered bowls of fettuccine with grated cheese and butter. As they waited they were brought a basket of bread, a dish of olives, a bottle of dry white wine and the addresses of two recommended lodging houses.

  The first house they tried they rejected as there was only one room available, but in the second there were two rooms and the use of a bathroom which had no bath but a wash stand with a jug and bowl and the promise of hot water, and a water closet.

  ‘It’s clean and homely,’ Beatrice said, on inspecting the rooms, ‘and quite adequate. I’m so tired I could happily sleep on the floor.’

  She didn’t have to, as the beds were comfortable and the rent was cheap, and as it was only for the one night they elected to stay. Their host, Enrico, spoke little English but they managed with their few words of Italian and sign language to make their requirements clear.

  Their windows overlooked the narrow street and they could hear music playing and voices singing and talking, and then the sound of church bells ringing out the hour, which lulled them to sleep, but all felt the lurch and roll of the train and heard in their dreams the whistle and screech of the engine.

  They awoke to hear their host singing, not well, but pleasantly. Beatrice, fully dressed, opened her door the better to hear just as Daniel and Charles came out of their room.

  ‘Bravo,’ they all said, entering the small dining room, which they guessed also served as a living room.

  ‘You lika ze opera? La Traviata – Brindisi – they drinka.’

  ‘The drinking song, I think,’ Beatrice explained. ‘We were to read The Lady of the Camellias at the academy but then it was banned. Madame Carpeoux said it was considered immoral so it was not suitable for us young ladies.’ Her eyebrows twitched provocatively. ‘But we managed to obtain a copy. It wasn’t immoral at all, it was about love, and I think that’s what the song is about. They’re drinking a toast to love.’

  ‘Well, I’ll join them in that.’ Charles raised his cup of black coffee.

  Daniel laughed and raised his cup too. ‘You never cease to amaze me, Beatrice! What a lot you know.’

  She smiled. ‘A little about a lot of things,’ she said. ‘That’s what happens at finishing school. We’re told many t
hings about lots of subjects so that we are able to have conversations with …’ she hesitated, ‘young people, particularly young gentlemen, who will then be dazzled by our wit and intelligence!’

  Daniel nodded sagely. ‘I think it just might be working, don’t you, Charles?’

  Charles leaned back in his chair and said nonchalantly, ‘Difficult to say as Bea’s my sister, but I might ask her to coach me when we arrive home and find out if it works in reverse.’

  Enrico told them that they could leave their belongings there until the evening in case they wanted to stay another night. Daniel suggested they should, as they were not certain that they would be offered accommodation with Marco’s relatives. Enrico helpfully gave them directions to the Colosseum, from which they would be able to find the Orsini home on their map.

  He had seemed impressed when told the district they were looking for was near the Parco del Colle Oppio, and rubbed his fingers together to indicate wealth. Then he studied Daniel closely. ‘Italiano? Come ti chiami?’

  Daniel smiled. Are you Italian? What’s your name? He was getting used to this question and now knew what it meant and how to answer. ‘English,’ he said. ‘My name is Daniel Orsini.’

  ‘Ah!’ Enrico threw up his hands and talked volubly and at great speed and they couldn’t understand a word, and then he took a piece of paper and wrote on it Teatro di Marcello. ‘Palazzo Orsini,’ he said. ‘You go.’

  But first they made their way to the address near the Colosseum, and this was easy to find, the Colosseum being recognizable from a great distance. There were many shops and businesses down the busy street, which was packed with carriages, carts and hundreds of pedestrians. On the top floors of the buildings were apartments rather than the houses they were expecting.

  The door number they wanted was outside a bank, a building with many floors and windows, and down the side street they found an entrance with a mosaic floor and a stone staircase with an oak stair rail leading to the top floor.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ Daniel said. ‘It looks like a long walk up.’

  Beatrice was hampered by her skirts, but telling Daniel and Charles to go ahead, she hitched them up above her ankles and set off behind them. The apartment they required was on the third floor, and from behind the door they could hear the sound of a violin playing.

  Daniel raised the brass knocker and gave two sharp raps; the door was opened almost immediately by a young maid, and he put his hand to his chest and said, ‘Daniel Orsini, signorina.’

  She indicated that they should enter and they followed her through a lavishly decorated hall also with a mosaic floor and with walls dressed with tapestry hangings; a marble table with a large display of scented lilies was placed in the centre. The maid tapped on another door before ushering them into a wide withdrawing room set with sofas and side tables and large oil paintings where an elderly man, white-haired and bearded and probably Marco’s age, was standing by the window with a violin in his hand.

  Daniel gave a short bow. ‘Signor Rosso, my name is Daniel Orsini. My grandfather, Marco Orsini—’

  ‘Ah! Come in. Come in, welcome.’ He embraced them all with wide arms and Daniel bowed again, as did Charles, whilst Beatrice gave a graceful dip of her knee.

  ‘I have a letter from Marco to expect you. Come, meet my wife.’ He led them into a smaller sitting room where a tiny woman dressed in black was sitting on a velvet chair. She rose to meet them and again they were welcomed. Her name was Isabella and they were told she didn’t speak any English. She gave Daniel a small white hand that looked too fragile to hold, but he bent over it in what he thought an appropriate gesture, and Charles did the same. Beatrice dipped her knee again and Signora Rosso came towards her as if to examine her more closely.

  ‘Inglese,’ she murmured, ‘bella bella,’ patting each of her own cheeks as if to demonstrate Beatrice’s fair skin. ‘Flavia,’ she added, indicating Beatrice’s blonde hair.

  The three of them were invited to be seated and in halting Italian Beatrice asked if Signor Rosso was a musician. Instantly he denied it, exclaiming that he played only for himself, for his own and his wife’s entertainment.

  The maid brought in coffee and biscotti and after a moment’s silence Signor Rosso said, ‘I did not know that Marco had an English grandson. He and I, our fathers were cousins, perhaps you know that? My father, he was from the Bracciano line, and Marco and I were good friends when we were young men, but have not met in over twenty years. He went to England and had a son, yes? Or a daughter?’

  ‘A son, sir,’ Daniel told him. ‘My father. He died when I was young. I don’t remember him.’

  ‘Ah!’ Rosso nodded. ‘Marco, he came back to Italy and his father had chosen a wife for him; she was a good woman but she no give him sons, only daughters.’

  ‘Erm, yes. My grandmother was an Englishwoman.’ Daniel didn’t quite know how to continue the conversation, but Signor Rosso had no such reservations and with a quick glance at Beatrice he said, ‘My wife she no understand English so you need not worry on her account, and signorina,’ again a glance at Beatrice, ‘I think you understand ze situation?’

  ‘I do, signor,’ Beatrice assured him. ‘I have known our good friend Daniel since childhood. We’ve grown up together; there are no secrets.’

  ‘Well then, I tell you.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Marco, he tell me when he come back to Italy that he ’ad fallen in love wiz a beautiful English signorina.’ He glanced at Daniel. ‘That ees your grandmother, yes?’

  ‘Yes, so I understand, sir.’

  ‘And so you come to claim your heritage, yes? You ’ave found your family.’

  ‘Oh!’ Daniel was shocked. ‘No, signor, I haven’t come to claim anything, only to find ’truth of my blood. My father was adopted; he didn’t know his birth mother or father.’

  ‘Ah, I understand.’ Rosso nodded wisely. ‘You wish to know how you, wiz your Italian blood, came to be born in England, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Daniel said reluctantly. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘It’s so very interesting, isn’t it?’ Beatrice put in. ‘And important to know who we are.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Rosso smiled at her. ‘But anyone can tell who you and your brother are. You are pure bred Inglesi.’ He shrugged, shaking his head from side to side and his mouth making a little moue. ‘Or perhaps Swiss or Scandinavian, who knows? We will never be sure of who our forefathers are.’ His eyes gave a merry twinkle. ‘Perhaps we should not ask, eh?’

  Signor Rosso went to fetch his coat and hat and said he would take them out for lunch and show them some of the important sites of Rome. His wife would not be joining them as she didn’t go out in the heat of the day, and she warned Beatrice in sign language that she should be careful. Then she lifted a finger and scurried away, returning a moment later with a parasol and a fan which she gave to Beatrice, indicating that she should keep them.

  They walked in the shade of the buildings but even so the heat seemed to bounce off the walls. Daniel and Charles, following Rosso who had taken Beatrice’s arm to escort her, quietly discussed their preference for staying in the lodging house rather than with the Rossos.

  ‘I agree, Daniel,’ Charles murmured. ‘It might seem rather an intrusion for the three of us to stay even if for courtesy’s sake we were asked.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ Daniel said. ‘He doesn’t know us, after all. I’m a relation of a relation and nothing to do with him.’

  They hadn’t gone far before Rosso turned into a building that housed a restaurant. He was obviously well known as he was greeted profusely by the waiters and the owner, and he seemed to be explaining who the three English people were.

  He pointed out Daniel and they heard the name Orsini; the owner came and shook Daniel by the hand and then Charles, and put his hand to his chest and gave a bow as he greeted Beatrice.

  Rosso ordered food and wine for them, and whilst they waited he began a long explanation of the Orsi
ni family that completely lost them except for the fact that it was an ancient famiglia going back to Roman times. He lifted his shoulders and hands as he told them, ‘There were popes and cardinals and many noblemen and many broken lines wiz intermarriage and so on. I show you ze Teatro di Marcello, it is a ruined place, very old, two thousand years old, even more old than ze Colosseum, it become a ruin and then noblemen, they begin to build a beautiful ’ouse on top, which then ze Orsinis live in and make it their palace,’ again came the shrug of his shoulders, ‘I don’t know, maybe two hundred years ago.’

  Daniel was beginning to feel dizzy with information and knew he wouldn’t remember half of it; he gave a slight smile as he recalled George Hart saying solemnly that he should go to Rome. And here I am, he thought, and completely, incredibly, overwhelmed.

  ‘And also,’ Rosso was still talking, ‘you might like to go to Nerola and see ze Castello Orsini, it ees a ruin, or even Lazio and Taranto, but I don’t know them, there are too many to visit and I am old. Older even than Marco who ’as such great spirit.’

  They shared a platter of antipasti misti with many thinly sliced meats including prosciutto, baby artichokes and slices of tomato and garlic drizzled with olive oil and served with freshly baked bruschetta; then came dishes of pasta, a speciality of the house, followed by a platter of roasted lamb flavoured with spices and herbs. A bottle of Frascati was ordered to drink with the lamb, and just as they were beginning to think they might not want to eat again for a week, Signor Rosso signalled to a waiter and said to Beatrice, ‘You musta try ze crostata di ricotta, how you say, cake with cheese and eggs and limone, and for drink you must have Marsala.’

  ‘Cheesecake?’ Beatrice suggested, and said she would like to try it.

  Daniel gazed at it when the dish was brought. It looked delicious, a thin slice of pastry holding the light concoction. ‘It looks good,’ he said. ‘And nothing like my ma’s Yorkshire cheesecake.’

  By the time they had finished eating and talking in the cool restaurant it was three thirty and the heat outside had abated slightly as the sky clouded over.