The Tuscan Child(14)

“Allora. Now. Let me see. We must remove the trousers, I think.”

He was reluctant to take down his trousers in front of a strange woman, but she was already lifting up his leather jacket and unbuckling his belt.

“Signora, no.” He tried to push her hands away.

She laughed. “A typical Englishman. He would rather bleed to death than let a woman see him in his underwear.”

“Have you met any other Englishmen?” he asked, amused at this outburst.

“No, but one hears that they are cold like fish. Not passionate like our men.”

“We are not all cold like fish, I assure you,” he said. “But we are brought up to behave correctly at all times.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “At this moment I do not imagine that you will have any improper ideas if I see you with no trousers on. Come on, let us get on with it. I must return home soon or they will start to worry that something has happened to me.”

She helped him ease down his trousers and then saw the long johns beneath them. At the place above the knee, they were stuck to his skin with dried blood.

“Gesù Maria!” she exclaimed. She dropped to her knees beside him and tried to pry away the fabric as gently as she could. He gasped at the sudden pain.

“I’m sorry, but it must be done,” she said. “Do you have a knife? We must cut it away, I fear.”

He retrieved the knife from his boot and helped cut the underwear free above the wound.

“Water,” she said. “I need water to ease the fabric away and then wash your wound so that we can see how bad it is.” And before he could answer she had darted out of the sanctuary, leaving him alone. He hobbled to an overturned pew, righted it with much effort, and sat on it with his leg outstretched before him. In the half-darkness it was hard to see just how bad his leg was. He rummaged in the parachute pouch and located the tiny first aid kit in the central pocket. It contained wound dressings, a roll of bandage, a tourniquet, iodine, and, to his great excitement, a vial of morphine and a syringe. He had just opened a wound dressing when Sofia returned.

“I have found water,” she said, sounding triumphant. “The rain barrel was overflowing and I collected some in this tin mug I found.” When she saw his suspicious face she added, “Don’t worry. I washed it out as best I could and wiped it clean with my petticoat.” She saw what he had laid out on the bench. “Oh, you have good things there. Now, if you permit, I will try to clean your wound for you.”

She started to cleanse the area, gradually peeling away the stuck fabric until it came off. The blood saturated the dressing long before the area was clear. “Your wound still bleeds, I fear. We must apply pressure to stop it.”

“But what if the bullet is still in there? Shouldn’t we try to locate it first?”

She gave a wonderfully expressive shrug. “A bullet will not matter if you bleed to death first.” She took the bandage, unrolled it, made a wad, and pressed it on to his wound. He cried out in pain.

“Of course, I forgot. The bone may be broken. Here, hold this without pushing too hard.”

He did as he was told, but said, “I have morphine here. It will help to deaden the pain.”

She watched as he injected it, nodding with approval.

“When I return I will bring bandages and a piece of wood for a splint.” She looked at him. “Be careful as you pull up your trousers again. That wool fabric would not be good if it sticks to the wound. Perhaps you should not pull them up. Maybe your parachute can help keep you warm. I will try to bring a blanket, too.”

He grabbed at her hand. “Signora Bartoli, no. I do not want you to take anything your family might need. And I do not want you to take risks for me. I would certainly appreciate some food and a splint, but then I will try to be on my way. Even if I meet some Germans, I am a pilot. I will be a prisoner of war and treated fairly.”

She looked at him, then shook her head and laughed. “You think those animals will treat you fairly? In a village near here they lined up the people and shot them for helping the partisans. All of the people. Babies and children and old women. Bang, bang, bang. All dead. And the Germans are now afraid. They know they are losing. Their line is no longer holding. Every day they are pushed back a little further to the north. You would be a liability to them. No, I do not think they would treat you fairly. We just have to pray that the Allies get here soon.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “Have courage. I will return when I can. You should not try to light a fire. The smoke may be seen.”

She paused in the doorway to look back at him. “May God watch over you.” And then she was gone.





CHAPTER SEVEN





JOANNA


April 1973

The funeral was held on a rainy Tuesday. The weather had looked promising over the weekend, but on Monday afternoon it clouded over again, and by nightfall the rain had begun. At the time of the funeral it was a bleak and blustery day. I hadn’t expected anybody to come but was surprised by the number of local people who filled the pews and later stood around the grave with me while the rain dripped from our umbrellas and on to the coffin. It seemed a fitting send-off for my father that the heavens were weeping for him.

Afterward, the vicar’s wife and Billy Overton’s bakery had prepared a fine spread in the church hall. One person after another came up to me to express condolences. Some of them I knew, others were complete strangers, but they all had some association to Langley Hall and my family. “And my mother was in service at the Hall when she was a girl, and she always said how kind the old squire was to her when she got scarlet fever.” Similar stories over and over, until I realised that everyone present resented the loss of the Hall as much as my father had done. It represented the passing of an old way of life, of the security of knowing one’s place. I found it very touching.