Freefall

by Robert Radcliffe

  ‘Who the hell goes there?’ it demanded shrilly. ‘Halt or I shoot!’

  ‘What with?’ Nightjar murmured. ‘Mi scusi, signora! It is Armando, friend of Salvatore, from the village. I, er, bring a traveller. Seeking shelter. For a few days.’

  ‘Well, he can seek it elsewhere!’

  The door banged shut. Theo, shivering, lowered his suitcases. His shoes felt soggy once more, and the rain icy at his neck.

  Nightjar tried again. ‘He has money, signora!’

  The door creaked. ‘How much money?’

  ‘Quite a lot. And he can work.’

  ‘He’ll damn well have to. I’m not running a hotel!’

  They were shown into a tiny stone parlour featuring a scrubbed wooden table, an ash-filled hearth, a rocking chair, and two split leather armchairs. To one side narrow wooden steps led up to a mezzanine from where two tousled heads poked from a bed. A similar bedroom rose to the other side. Rosa held up the lantern, inspecting Theo from head to toe, her mouth downturned. She was very short, and stooped, with wiry white hair and a pinched face. She wore a heavy cotton nightshift and spoke in an incomprehensible local dialect.

  ‘A bit scrawny, isn’t he? And why so pale?’

  ‘He’s from the north, signora. But strong, I assure you, just look at these muscles. His name’s Hor— I mean Theodor. He’s come here to—’

  ‘I don’t want to know!’

  ‘Scusi, signora?’

  ‘His name, why he’s here: I don’t want to know these things. All I know is he sleeps in the cowshed, does what he’s told, and keeps himself to himself!’

  ‘Yes of course, signora.’

  ‘And pays one week in advance. That is all. Goodnight!’

  *

  His day began before dawn when he was rudely roused from sleep by someone banging on a tin bath out in the yard. Struggling in panic from his straw palliasse, he threw on clothes and stumbled headlong down the ladder to the cattle shed, which contained four snorting heifers and stank of ammonia and dung.

  ‘Hurry up, northern boy, if you want to eat!’

  He lurched into the half-light: ‘Buongiorno, signora.’

  She shooed him away. ‘Wash, wash! Round the side. Hurry!’

  Beside the cottage was a wooden trough filled with rainwater, with a rag for a hand towel. Also available, if required, and set back a safe distance from the main dwelling, was an evil-smelling hut he’d been shown called the gabinetto, which consisted of a squatting hole over a black pit seething with flies. Washing his face and teeth with the silky rainwater, he decided the gabinetto could wait.

  Breakfast was warmed milk with dipped bread. It was taken at the table, together with his two sleepy housemates while Rosa fussed at the stove. The twins, he guessed, were about thirty, Francesca round and dark with powerful shoulders and black hair piled in a bun, while her brother Vittorio was much slighter, shaven-haired and with olive-green eyes which smiled curiously as he slurped his milk. Theo murmured a greeting, but neither spoke back.

  Barely had they finished breakfast before Rosa was hurrying them out to work. Vittorio was in charge of the dogs, pigs and chickens, Francesca the oxen, while Theo evidently was to tackle the maize harvest. Equipment for this comprised a huge wooden backpack or hod, which Rosa fastened to his shoulders, tutting and clucking, using leather straps. She then led him up winding paths still shrouded in mist, past a tool shed for drying the cobs, past the pigpen, around a poorly fenced field containing an enormous bull which watched them balefully, until some fifteen minutes later they arrived at the cornfield. Pale dawn light slanted on to a forest of head-high stalks that whispered in the first stirrings of a breeze. Theo surveyed the field, which was large and sloping and bordered by woodland, and wondered how long it would take to harvest the corn from it. With only a box.

  ‘You know what to do,’ Rosa barked in her clipped dialect.

  ‘Yes, um, well, no, not exactly, signora.’

  Her eyes rolled. ‘Madre di Dio!’ She bent to a stalk, swept back the leaves to expose the cob, grasped it firmly and then snapped it down and up with a twist to break it off. ‘Like that,’ she said, tossing it in his hod. ‘And don’t dawdle!’

  He worked all morning. Still wearing his suit trousers and shoes, and with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled, he was soon hot, thirsty and caked in dust from the maize stalks. Small rodents hopped about his feet as he moved and at one point he saw a snake slithering away. His hod soon filled but chafed his back as he worked, so he took it off and used it like a basket. In a short time it was full so he hoisted it on to his shoulders, grunting at the weight, and set off back down the hill to the tool shed, where he emptied it on to the floor. Pausing only to examine rows of ancient tools and a broken toy car on a work bench, he filled his water bottle and set off once more, past the pigs, carefully around the watching bull, and on up to the plain where the maize was. On about the fourth rotation Rosa stopped him at the drying shed to inspect his labours. What she saw did not please her.

  ‘Maledetto idiota! What the hell have you done?’

  ‘Signora?’

  ‘Can I not leave you this one simple task, for the love of Jesus!’ She threw up her hands in exasperation and set off up the hill, Theo following with the hod. This time, possibly because it recognized its mistress, Bruno the bull saw them coming, put his huge head down and came charging straight at them, only to veer away at the last moment when she shooed him with her apron. ‘He’s a cucciolo really,’ she said, which meant puppy, but then added: ‘Never, ever, go in his field alone.’ Up at the maize field it transpired his sin had been to harvest unripe cobs. ‘The hair!’ she explained, pointing to the silken threads on top of each. ‘The hair must be brown and curly, just like in your pantaloni, yes?’

  ‘I... What?’

  ‘Only then is it ready. If still green and smooth then is not ready and must wait.’

  ‘Si, signora, I see that now. Mi scusi.’

  ‘And load the box properly. Like this.’ She began stacking the cobs in neat rows. ‘This way you will carry twice as much again.’

  Some hours later, bent and aching, he heard the distant banging of the tin bath, and began a weary descent. By now his back was stiff and sore, his shoulders raw with chafing, his hands bloody and his clothes spoiled. Unloading his hod he stumbled towards the cottage, sniffing hungrily at delicious baking smells, only to be sent away once more to wash. Having buried his face in the trough, he raised it to the sun and realized it was still barely noon.

  Lunch was fresh bread from the oven, a sticky goat’s cheese, salami, bitter red wine for Rosa and Theo, and water for the twins. Who were noticeably more animated than earlier, smiling and clucking and nudging each other in amusement at their guest. Francesca prodded his arm, then began tapping her chest and cupping an ear.

  ‘They want to know your name,’ Rosa said. ‘In sign.’

  ‘Oh? Ah, well, you see, my name is Theo. Tee-oh.’ He turned to them, tapping his own chest, and making a ‘T’ with his hands followed by an ‘O’. ‘T-O, you see?’

  Nods and smiles rewarded him, and Vittorio clapped his hands in delight. Then Francesca was signing again, a huge round circle, like a globe, then the finger-pointing, and the cupped ear.

  ‘Um, I think they’re asking where I come from.’

  A plate clattered on to the table. On it a pear sliced in four.

  ‘Then tell them.’

  ‘Yes, but you said...’

  ‘Tell them.’ Rosa’s eyes were glinting. ‘They haven’t met anyone new in years.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Two weeks went by. With them went high summer in the mountains, the days suddenly becoming shorter and the nights cooler, while the leaves of the chestnut trees turned to rust. Theo became absorbed into the fabric of the farm, an extra component of its patterns and rhythms, like an added voice in its song. His days varied little; he found reassurance in this, and in its natural order and routine. Roused by the tin bath
before dawn, thence to the water trough and a drowsy breakfast with the family, it was then straight to the maize field, in fair weather or foul, to bring in the cobs before the first frosts ruined them. Lunch followed before it was back out to work, mending a fence or setting a post, chopping firewood or clearing a ditch, whatever the day required. His labours demanded little thought or decision, just stamina and willingness, and after the chaotic stresses of war, with its waiting and uncertainty, blood, terror and bone-sapping exhaustion, he found the simplicity of bucolic life a welcome tonic. When the day grew dark, the work finished, the family gathered for the evening meal of pasta and salami and fruit and home-cured ham so fine it melted on the tongue, all served with the resinous dark wine of the region. Afterwards he would sit by the fire and do puzzles with the twins, or read from Rosa’s small stock of books, or, if she was in the mood, converse a little with her. One night he even tried penning a letter to Carla.

  Dearest Mama,

  I have received your letter for which I thank you. It is most interesting to catch up on the news of Partito Popolare Sudtirolese and I am of course delighted to hear of your engagement to Nicholas Abercrombie, who sounds a fine gentleman. I am fit and well and currently away from military activity although of course cannot say where. Mama, there is a matter I feel I should bring to your attention which relates to your marriage, namely that your original husband, my father Victor, is not in fact dead but

  He balled the page and threw it in the fire. Selecting a second sheet he began again but this time got no further than ‘Dearest Mama’. All he could think of were questions. Do you love me, Mama? Did you ever really love me? Am I merely an inconvenience? How can you marry someone when you are already married? Do you want to know about Victor? Do you already know?

  ‘A love note to your fidanzata?’ Rosa, squinting myopically, was darning a pair of ancient serge trousers pulled from a chest. Francesca, he noted, immediately glanced up at the question.

  ‘I have no fiancée. I am writing to my mother. Or trying to.’

  ‘Up north?’

  ‘I... No. She lives in London.’

  ‘Madre di Dio, you’re British! I knew it, that accent—’

  ‘No, signora, I assure you I was born in Italy.’

  ‘Your papa, then...’

  ‘He... It’s complicated.’

  ‘Pah! Show me a family that isn’t.’ She held up the trousers. ‘Here, try these on.’

  ‘Oh, um, I’ll just go outside—’

  ‘No, here, idiota, where I can see! Just take off yours and put these.’

  Hesitantly he began unbuckling his belt, both twins by now staring avidly. The trousers were too large, high at the waist and smelled of old mothballs, but once cinched with a belt looked presentable enough for a farm labourer.

  ‘Perfetto.’ Rosa’s eye was critical. ‘My dear Gianluca, how you remind me of him.’ She delved into the chest, producing a corduroy waistcoat. ‘You should wear this as well. And his boots.’

  ‘I have boots. In my suitcase.’

  ‘Army boots.’ Her voice was icy suddenly. ‘You will not wear them here.’

  ‘As you prefer, signora.’ He wondered how she knew. But from that day on, he went to work wearing the clothes of a man called Gianluca.

  Some days there were deliveries, although he never saw them as he was banned from venturing down the track. The deliveryman, usually Salvatore or another village tradesman, drove up by mule cart as far as the ‘Keep Away’ sign, and deposited whatever was ordered under a box. Salvatore would similarly collect goods at the same time: a sack of cobs, boxes of eggs, a ham for the market. Sometimes there was a coded note from Nightjar among the deliveries. ‘Eight birds in the coop now!’ he wrote one day, meaning new recruits joining the cell. ‘The day of release is nearly at hand!’ trumpeted another. He also added snippets of political gossip and word of any military activity in the area. Theo replied with ‘keep me informed’ notes and dutifully passed the information on to his controllers, staying up late in his cowshed loft to laboriously tap out Morse messages on his SOE radio. The equipment took time to set up and operate, and he worried his transmissions might be being monitored. Also, because of the mountain location, the poor range of the radio, and the low power of its batteries, which were steadily fading, he never knew if his messages were received.

  Twice during this period he rose early, told Rosa he would not be available for farm work that day, packed a knapsack and set off into the hills. Both times she watched him prepare, purse-lipped as he laced on his army boots, but asked no questions nor made any attempt to stop him. Climbing high into the Matese, he then spent many hours reconnoitring the area, paying particular attention to movements of personnel or equipment. Often he saw formations of aircraft passing high overhead, but couldn’t tell whose they were. Once he spotted a dust cloud in the distance, and hurrying up a craggy peak raised his binoculars to glimpse a two-mile-long infantry column plodding steadily south. On another he saw dark smoke rising from a fold in the hills, and, approaching warily, came upon a cluster of burning farm buildings. Outside lay two bodies, a man and woman, both shot through the head. Unable to help them, or even risk disturbing the scene, he could only take note of the location and creep back into the trees. By nightfall on these occasions he was back at Rosa’s farm, his return greeted by grins and handclaps from the twins, and disapproving clucks of relief from Rosa. The next day they all went back to work as if nothing had happened.

  One morning a heifer in oestrus was brought up to be served by Bruno. This, Theo learned, was a major event requiring much careful planning. As usual the cow’s owner approached no nearer than the boundary, leaving it tethered to a tree before departing again. Rosa and Vittorio fetched it, while Francesca, who was in charge of the oxen, readied Bruno for the consumazione. Not that he required much readying, Theo saw, for even as they approached his field they could hear him bucking and snorting furiously, as though sensing the heifer, and as they drew nearer the engorged state of his pene was embarrassingly obvious, as Francesca pointed out with a nudge of approval. Her task was to move him into a smaller pen for the mating to take place, and Theo watched with trepidation as she ducked into the field and strode towards him. ‘Be careful,’ he called, and she turned and nodded. Her pace slowed to a stroll; Bruno turned and glared at her, breath steaming visibly from flared nostrils, one hoof pawing the ground. Then he gave voice to an enormous warning roar, deafening like the blast of trumpets. But just as he was lowering his head to charge, she began to call out in a melodic sing-song tone unlike anything he’d ever heard. Bruno’s ears twitched, and his head came up. A few seconds more and she was standing at his side holding his tether. Later, after the mating, he demolished the pen in celebration.

  ‘She can hear, can’t she?’ he said to Rosa that evening. ‘Francesca.’ They were in the tool shed, sorting cobs into a box for market. The light was going; they were working by the glow of a lantern.

  ‘I never said she can’t.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to village gossip, northern boy.’

  ‘No.’

  Tutting, she threw cobs in the box. ‘Idiot people. What else did they tell you?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘About Pazza Rosa the husband-killer? Or about mad Rosa and her idiot twins?’

  He went on sorting cobs.

  ‘Of course they did. And everyone wonders why I keep people away!’

  ‘Mi scusi, signora. I had no right to mention it.’

  She straightened from the box. ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘It’s not necessary.’

  ‘How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Go on. How old?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, um, perhaps sixty-something...’

  ‘Seventy-eight! And they’re twenty-nine. So do the calculation!’

  ‘I, well...’

  ‘I’m not their mother. I couldn’t be.�
�

  ‘Electricity.’

  ‘What?’

  Theo pointed. ‘You have electricity. There, I can see a wire hanging, and a fitting for a light.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Does it work?’

  *

  That night, over rather more wine than was their custom, they told each other what they needed to. ‘I am a soldier of the British army,’ he said, ‘I have a wireless, and must operate it. Using electricity.’ Rosa nodded, crossed herself, and, checking the twins were abed, began her story. Which took rather longer.

  Her beloved husband Gianluca, the man whose clothes Theo wore, died of the tubercolosi while still a young man. They had one daughter, Maria, who grew up barely remembering him. The farm thrived in those days and they had many workers and visiting tradesmen. When Maria was eighteen the municipality announced that every dwelling was to be connected to the elettricità. Rosa was unimpressed. ‘I didn’t want it, didn’t trust it, refused to pay for it and never used it.’ But a wire was nevertheless duly extended from the village by a municipal electrician called Rossi who came up to make the connections. Rosa refused to have it in the cottage so told him to terminate it in the tool shed. She never even tested it; in any case, the supply rarely functioned as the project ran out of money. Meanwhile Rossi, who was forty and boastful, had begun to court Maria, and in due course sought her hand. ‘They were married on June the twenty-eighth 1914, a Sunday, the same day that archduke was assassinated in Yugoslavia.’ Rosa shook her head. ‘A bad day for us all.’

  Maria died in childbirth a year later. ‘Up there, delivering those two.’ She nodded at the mezzanine where the twins were sleeping. ‘It took four days; she died in my arms. One twin was healthy, but the boy was starved of air in the birth canal and suffered damage to the brain. So I had lost my beloved Gianluca, and my only daughter, and was left with two baby grandchildren, one of them disabled.’ She sipped wine. ‘And a useless son-in-law who turned to drink.’ Rossi by then was out of work, she went on, bitter, angry and increasingly abusive to the children whom he blamed for Maria’s death. He spent less and less time at the farm, which was falling into neglect, leaving an overworked Rosa to cope as best she could. More ominously, as the twins grew, he began to take an unhealthy interest in Francesca. ‘Several times I caught him, drunk on grappa, trying to touch her where he shouldn’t. I warned him off but he just laughed and went back to the taverna. I also told Francesca to keep away from him.’