The Tuscan Child(7)
I couldn’t find anything to say or return her smile. All I wanted to do was escape from that perfect little room, from her self-satisfied smile.
“Do you have prospects in that direction?” she asked. “Any wedding bells on the horizon?” I saw her glance at my left hand.
“No,” I replied. “No wedding bells.”
“Still the ambitious career woman, I see.” She smiled at me again. “So if you could have your father’s belongings moved from the lodge before the start of the summer term, I’d much appreciate it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
HUGO
December 1944
He came to with a start as something tickled his cheek. He brushed at it in alarm and saw it was only a stalk of grass bent over by the wind. He propped himself up, taking in the cold, damp soil around him, the rows of neat olive trees stretching up the hillside. It was still not quite light, but from what he could make out, the sky above him was leaden grey, heavy with the promise of rain. There was already a fine, misty drizzle coating him with a layer of moisture. He felt a tug jerk him over backward and almost cried out in alarm until he realised he was still attached to his parachute that now lay flapping on the ground like some kind of wounded bird. He fumbled at the catch, the gloves on his hands making his fingers clumsy, and eventually felt it release. He pulled away the harness and tried to sit up. His head swam with nausea as he looked around, trying to make his brain obey him and decide what course of action he should take.
The parachute billowed out as the wind hit it and threatened to blow it away. That would never do. He grabbed at the strings, attempted to stagger to his feet, and collapsed in pain again. His leg simply wouldn’t hold him. He dragged the parachute toward him, reeling it in, and fought with the wind to roll it up. It was amazingly light, and he managed to do a reasonable job of stuffing it back into its pouch.
Once he had safely stowed the parachute, he sat, clutching it to him, looking around and assessing the situation. The hillside around him was planted with rows of olive trees. Round little trees with feathery leaves. Not much chance of hiding among them. The first real woodland—although now mostly bare at this time of year—was at the top of the hill several hundred yards away, and he had no way of knowing if it was the start of a true forest or merely a thin stretch of trees bordering another farm. Clouds hung down over the hilltops, but as they swirled and parted he noticed beyond the trees a rocky outcropping rising with the ruins of what looked like an old fortress on it. That might be a promising place to hide, at least until he had time to assess his wounds and decide what to do next.
He swivelled around to look down the hill. The rows of olive trees ended in a small depression, and on the other side the ground rose again, this time planted with rows of what looked like vines, although they were dead and brown intertwined sticks at this time of year. Beyond them, on the ridge, ran a row of black cypress trees looking like soldiers standing at attention through the mist that clung to the hillside. A road, he thought, remembering a time when he had painted scenes like this. Where the cypress trees ended, the top of the hill was crowned with woodland, and above them he could make out the tiled roofs of a small hill town. A square church tower rose above the roofs, and as he watched he heard a bell tolling six.
He stared at the hill town, wondering what sort of reception he’d get if he headed in that direction. Having lived in Italy he was hopeful that the local people would not be too fond of Germans. But then Germans might be occupying the town. It was a risk he couldn’t take—at least not until he knew more.
A sudden awful shriek made him jump before he realised it was a rooster greeting the dawn. A second answered it. A dog barked. The village was coming to life. He needed to move before he was discovered. He started to crawl forward, using his hands and his good leg, dragging his parachute pack beside him. He dared not leave it behind—it would certainly give him away. And besides, a parachute might be useful—a future shelter if it rained or snowed, maybe? He wondered if he’d go faster if he stood up and hopped, steadying himself with tree branches. A crutch, he thought. I need a stick to make a crutch, or maybe a splint would work if the bone is broken. His going was painfully slow. The olive trees seemed to go on forever. He kept turning to look back to see if anyone was coming. The snort of an animal made him freeze and drop down to the earth. As he scanned the horizon, he spotted a horse and cart leaving the village along that high road. He heard the creak of wheels and the horse snorted again. He watched as it passed between the cypress trees, but it was going away from him, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he returned to his weary task.
A stiff breeze picked up, rustling the olive branches and sighing through the grass, masking faraway sounds. He felt horribly thirsty, his mouth parched and dry, and wished he’d had the sense to bring his canteen with him. Or his flask of brandy—that would have been most welcome. The woods were closer now, but he needed to stop. His strength gave out and he sat, leaning his back against a sturdy olive trunk, out of sight of the village, and closed his eyes. He felt horribly weak and realised he might have lost a lot of blood.
“I don’t want to die here,” he muttered. He made himself picture home. He was riding up to Langley Hall on a lovely summer day. The horse chestnuts were all in blossom. The air was perfumed with newly mown grass and the scent of roses. He reined in the horse to a trot as a groom came out to meet him.