The Tuscan Child(21)

He looked at my two suitcases. “Then let me give you a lift to the station. Or have you called for a cab?”

“No, I was planning to walk, so thank you,” I said gratefully.

I glanced back at Langley Hall as we drove away.

“Your brother came to see me,” he said. “That was a bit of a surprise.”

“It was for me, too,” I agreed. “I think he was horribly disappointed in his inheritance.”

“Yes, he questioned me for some time. I believe he thought you were hiding something from him, or you didn’t quite know the contents of the will. When I reassured him there was nothing but a title, he went away. Not the most pleasant of individuals.”

“Daddy would have been horrified,” I said.

We pulled up in the station yard. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. “I think the various sums of money will be released in the next week or so. And the items should go to auction soon.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very kind,” I said.

“Not at all. It’s been a pleasure.” He paused. “Joanna—I may call you Joanna, mayn’t I? I do come up to town from time to time. Maybe I could take you to a show or something.”

Scarlet had said something about falling off a horse and the best thing to do being to get right back on again. But it had been such a great and damaging fall. I wasn’t sure I wanted to ride anymore. It’s only a show, my inner voice was saying. Nothing more.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that.”

His face lit up.

But we never did go to that show because in a little over a month, I had left for Italy.





CHAPTER TEN





HUGO


December 1944

After Sofia had gone, Hugo sat holding the bandage over his wound for a long while until gradually he felt the morphine starting to work. There was still some water left in the battered tin mug, and he drank it gratefully, then remembered the chestnuts she had left for him. He peeled off the prickly casings and ate their contents. They weren’t as satisfying as the roasted chestnuts at home, but they were edible.

The rain was starting to drip on to him, and Hugo realised he would need to concoct some kind of shelter for himself before the rain got any worse. He used the last of the bandages to hold a pad around his wound and pulled his trousers back up, in spite of Sofia’s admonition. He wasn’t about to be caught by Germans with his trousers down! Then he stood up, reaching for the stick that acted as his crutch. The morphine was working well and he felt only faint stabs of pain as he moved forward cautiously. The first thing he did was relieve himself. After that he felt well enough to fish for the packet of cigarettes and lighter in his bomber jacket. He perched on the broken pew, taking long drags and giving a sigh of contentment. He had nearly a full pack. If he rationed himself he could make them last for several days.

He smoked the cigarette right down to the butt, then stubbed it out. He now felt ready to tackle what needed to be done. He stood in the middle of the chapel assessing the situation. There were certainly plenty of building materials. The whole roof had collapsed, but in the far corner there had been some kind of side chapel built into a nook, with the altar still standing. He hobbled around, dragging pieces of broken wood over to the corner. He placed what must have been a cupboard door on the floor, then leaned several planks against the altar front to make a tepee-like shelter. Then he brought out his parachute. He couldn’t decide whether to drape it over the whole thing as a waterproof tent or to use it as a covering around himself inside. He opted for the latter—at least under those planks of wood it wouldn’t draw attention to himself—and spread it out on the floor. Then he lowered himself to the ground and eased himself in through the gap, wrapping himself in the parachute.

The floor felt horribly hard, but the fine parachute silk did seem to trap his body heat. He wished he’d taken the time to put on his usual canvas flight suit. He was supposed to wear it over his clothes, but the pilots found them bulky. On missions like this he wasn’t even flying high enough or long enough to get really cold. He took out his service revolver and loaded it, retrieved the knife, and made sure they were where he could easily reach them. Then he tucked the pouch that had held his parachute and first aid kit under his head and lay back. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

He must have drifted off to sleep. The morphine was giving him strange dreams. He was on a high mountain, with clouds swirling below it, and angels and devils were wrestling for his soul. The devils had swastikas tattooed on to their foreheads and were trying to drag him down to a place below the clouds. Then one of the angels took him by the arm and lifted him up, and now he was flying.

“Don’t let me fall!” he cried out, looking up at the angel.

“Of course I won’t. You are safe with me,” the angel said, and her face transformed into that of Sofia Bartoli. Hugo opened his eyes and found he was smiling. Then his heart gave a lurch as he spotted a woman’s face looking at him through a gap between his piled planks of wood. Not Sofia—a woman with light hair and a crown. He sat up, banging his head against the altar table and swearing. He peered out.

While he had been sleeping, the rain had stopped, and sunlight was now streaming into the chapel. The rays of slanted winter sun were falling directly on to a fresco on the opposite wall. Parts of the fresco were pockmarked and damaged, but this part was still intact. It showed a picture of the Virgin Mary. He couldn’t tell if she had been holding the Child Jesus, as that part of the fresco had been blown away. Just her face smiled down at him, and he found this extremely comforting—a sign almost that heaven was protecting him.