The Tuscan Child(24)
“And you were expecting a child.”
“Yes. It was the worst day of my life when I watched him get into the truck with the other men and be driven off. He waved to me and that was the last I ever saw of him.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, and he could see her fighting back tears. “Still, I must go on for the sake of my son. It is not easy. We pick the olives, then the Germans come and take most of our olive oil. We grow some vegetables and they come and take those, too.”
“And the goats?”
“They were taken long ago. I begged them to leave me one so that I could have milk for my child, who was not well at the time, but they didn’t speak Italian and I didn’t speak their language, so I had to watch my goats being loaded into a truck.” She pulled the shawl more tightly around her against the cold wind that blew in through the door opening. “I should not complain. It is the same for everyone. They take what we have—cows, chickens, even vegetables. All gone.”
“I heard a rooster crowing in your village, so someone must still have chickens,” he said.
“That is our mayor, Signor Pucci. He pretends to be friendly and helpful and they let him keep a couple of chickens. And one of the farmers still has a few sheep. The Germans do not like the taste of lamb.” She gave him a wry smile. “And so we exist. I am luckier than some. I grow corn and vegetables. I dry the beans from the summer crop. I make cornmeal for polenta. We will not starve, and neither will you, as long as I am here.”
Hugo had finished the soup. He felt its warmth spreading through his body.
“I can’t thank you enough.” He handed her back the empty bowl.
“It is nothing. And see, I have brought you other things.” She reached for the bag and produced items like a conjurer. “A blanket! It will help to keep off the worst of the cold. And an old sheet—it is clean. You can tear it up to make bandages for your wound.” She held up a small bottle. “This is grappa. It will help to keep out the cold. And I found this.” She held up what looked like a spoke from the back of a kitchen chair. “This may work as a splint while your bone heals itself.”
“You’re amazing,” Hugo said. “But won’t these things be missed?”
“I’ll tell you a secret.” She put her finger to her lips even though they were alone in the darkness. “My husband’s family has been in their house for many generations. The attic is full of unwanted things. When I have more time, I shall see what else I can find.”
“You must go now,” he said. “I will be content with food in my belly and a blanket. And tomorrow I may be feeling stronger.”
“Let us pray to Our Lady that you will. And I don’t know the saint of broken legs or wounds. I must ask Father Filippo. He’ll know.”
“Father Filippo?”
“Our parish priest. He is very wise. He knows everything.”
“Don’t tell him about me!” he said, his voice rising.
“I will have to, in confession. But the seal of the confessional is sacred. He may tell no one. He has made this promise to God. So do not worry.”
She patted his hand, stowed the basin in her bag, and draped the shawl around her head and shoulders again.
“May la Madonna watch over you until I return, Milord Ugo.”
He watched her lamplight bobbing across the darkness of the chapel. In the doorway she turned and smiled at him. He had an absurd desire to blow her kiss. Then he heard her footsteps going down the stairs until they were lost in the silence of the night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JOANNA
June 1973
It was the beginning of June when I got out of the train in Florence. Back home in England it had been dull and drizzling for days. People had muttered about how late summer was this year, and there had been news reports of early crops being flattened by hail. Here the sky was a brilliant blue—the blue that my father had painted all those years ago. The ochres and terra cottas of the buildings with their bright red tiles glowed in the rich light. I stood looking around me, taking in the people, their faces alive and animated, not trudging with heads down against the wind as they did in London. There was the dome of the cathedral, taller than every other building. And beyond it the hills rose, clothed in forest. It was so lovely it almost took my breath away.
I felt incredibly free, as if I was a butterfly just released from my cocoon. To her credit Scarlet had not thought I was completely mad when I announced that I was going to Italy to find out what had happened to my father during the war.
“Yeah. Good idea. Get right away from all the nastiness and from that bastard Adrian. Give yourself a chance to put it all behind you.” She didn’t say, “What about your articles? Do you think your solicitor will still allow you to come back? And what about your law exam? When do you propose to sit it now?”
I had asked myself those questions but had silenced the doubting voice. I had always been the good child, trying to please, to succeed, to do the right thing, and look where it had got me. Now I had a little money in my pocket (enough for a down payment on a flat, I had reminded myself), and I was going to do something quite reckless and uncharacteristic. It felt wonderful.
I had met Nigel Barton again in London when he came to tell me that I was free to take the money from my father’s bank accounts and that the person who had cleaned the paintings thought they might be worth more than a cursory clean.