The Tuscan Child(49)

“Now we go home to eat,” she said, nodding in satisfaction. “You shall help me stuff the zucchini blossoms.”

We arrived back at her house. “First we pick and then we stuff,” she said.

“I’ll go and put my purse away,” I said. “Then I’ll help you.”

I took the key and wended my way through the market garden to my little house. The door was still locked and untouched. I heaved a sigh of relief. I let myself in and checked that the three objects were still in my shoe. I left my purse and locked the door behind me. As I glanced over at the window, I noticed the imprint of a big boot in the soft earth. Had that been there this morning? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure I would have noticed. Was it maybe Gianni’s print from last night? But I remembered he had been quite slickly dressed—light blue shirt open at the neck and tight black trousers. Certainly no workman’s or labourer’s boots. That meant that someone had been trying to see in through that window while we had been away.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE





HUGO


December 1944

Hugo’s leg was definitely on the mend. He still couldn’t put any weight on it, but at least it didn’t throb violently all the time and the fever had not returned. In the morning he made himself get up and practice walking with the stick. The sun had been streaming in through the broken masonry, but when he came outside he stopped and gasped in surprise. Below him the world lay in a sea of white fog. Only the very tip of the church bell tower rose above it, and in the distance were the crests of other hills. This seemed like a perfect moment to try and explore, knowing he couldn’t be seen from below. The ground was frosty, and he moved cautiously, hopping around the ruined buildings, looking for anything that might be useful. He found a cooking pot, another spoon, and, to his delight, a tin of something. He couldn’t tell what, because the label had been destroyed, but that encouraged him to keep looking. He tucked his finds inside his jacket and ventured further. He spotted a boot sticking out from under a chunk of masonry. The other of the pair might be nearby. It would be a useful commodity for Sofia to trade. He used all his strength to move the piece of stone aside, then recoiled in horror when he saw that the boot was still attached to a leg. He had forgotten that the Allies had bombed a German gun position. There would certainly be other bodies buried here. This knowledge took away the childish excitement he had felt at making discoveries.

He carried his new treasures back to his lair and set about making a snare to catch a pigeon. His plan was simple enough: a stick to prop up the drawer he had salvaged from the rubble, a length of parachute cord tied to it to be jerked away when the pigeon went inside to peck at the crumbs he would leave. He cut away the parachute cord and then, having his knife handy, remembered that Sofia had expressed a desire for some of the silk to make underwear. He no longer needed the parachute now that she had brought him bedding, so he cut it up into useable pieces, smiling with anticipation at the thought of her face when she saw it.

He set up his trap and sprinkled the ground with breadcrumbs, then retreated into his hiding place. Now all he had to do was wait. The morning passed. He tried not to move or make a noise. Twice a pigeon flapped about, and once it landed on a beam but then flew off again. Finally it landed close to the trap. It walked forward, cooing throatily. For a moment he admired the iridescence of its feathers and was loath to kill it, but he forced these thoughts from his mind. Sofia needed meat. He could provide it. The pigeon waddled under the drawer and started to peck at the crumbs. He jerked at the chord. The stick flew out. The drawer landed with a resounding crash, trapping the pigeon. It had worked exactly as he had hoped.

He half crawled, half slithered over to it, lifted the drawer enough to slide his hand in, and grabbed the pigeon. It fluttered and struggled as he brought it out, but he wrung its neck and it lay still. He stared at it, realising it was the first time he had killed anything with his bare hands. As a boy at home he had known that pigs and chickens were killed on the farms around him. As a bomber pilot he had certainly killed when he dropped bombs on convoys and rail yards, but that was remote and impersonal. This was different. He was appalled at how easy it was to take a life. But that thought was displaced by the thought of Sofia’s face when she saw what he had for her. It was the first time he had been able to give her anything in return.

This thought made him remember her excitement about the parachute silk. A double gift. It made him absurdly happy. He lay back, exhausted, and tried to remember presents he had given Brenda. Had she been thrilled with them? In the early days, when they were in love, he had painted her portrait. She had liked that. But later? And he realised with a nagging sense of shame that his gifts had been routine, without much thought to them: expensive perfume, a pair of silk stockings. If they had grown apart, it was his fault as much as hers.

After the war I will make it up to her. And to little Teddy, he thought. And Sofia? The words whispered somewhere in his head. Never to see her again? Rubbish, he told himself. You can’t be in love with Sofia. She has been wonderfully kind when you needed help, but you’ve known her only a couple of weeks at the most. And you are weak and ill. It’s quite common for men to fall in love with their nurses . . .

He pushed the thought aside until she came to him that night. Sofia’s face, when he handed her his two gifts, was so alight with joy that he felt his heart melting—as if it had been frozen in ice for too long and had now returned to the heart of a young Hugo, heading out into the world amazed by beauty, hopeful for the future.