Last Train from Liguria Read online

  'Il Grossone – è morto?' he whispered when he'd finished his decade.

  'Sì,' she replied (refusing to call Rosa's husband 'the fat one') 'È morto – Signor Fabbri.'

  'Poverino,' the boy mumbled kindly, bringing his mouth down to kiss the front of his thumb, then licking it when a drop of milk fell over his hand.

  She watched him work for a while under the erratic light of his torch, milk splashing whenever an attempt to hoist the torch under his arm caused the jug to tip over. It smelled sweet and grassy – she could taste it from its scent. There was an older, sour smell too, which she took to be from the milk boy's clothes. She asked him if he would like her to hold the torch for him while he worked and he looked at the sky for a long few seconds as if deciding whether she could be trusted. Then he handed her the torch.

  When the task was finished he whispered again, this time an offer to escort her back to the road, and she had been grateful that she hadn't needed to ask. He took the torch back and stuck it into his belt. Then, taking her by the hand, started to lead her along.

  Into the first of the carruggi– not a thread of light anywhere – he spoke to her again, this time without a whisper, his voice suddenly deep. It was late, he said, for an English signora to be walking out on her own. He would take care of her, she need not be afraid. He would go with her to her house, he would see nobody jumped on her, maybe tried to kiss or fondle her, as men often did. He would protect her, all the way. She realized then the hand she was holding was not the hand of a child.

  They turned right, where the carruggio widened and lifted, and a single lighted lantern hanging from a bracket in the wall allowed her to make him out. Short in stature, not quite a man, but near enough to it, with his Adam's apple eager and large, his skimpy facial hair, the pimples pushing to get out from under his skin. In any case, far too old to be walking around with at that hour of the night, holding hands.

  She was trying to work out how she could free her hand without causing offence, when she saw something slumped in a doorway. The boy saw it too and, standing back from her, had held his hand out theatrically as if to tell her to wait until he had assessed the danger, then, laying the milk jug down, he pulled the torch like a gun from his belt and swung it to point at the slump. He clicked on the light and it bounced onto a man. A man in a heap; head down to his chest, coat hanging off him, hair flopped over his forehead.

  'È stato al bordello.' The boy was laughing and Bella pretended not to understand. Pulling her by the sleeve he took her a little way to the corner and pointed up another narrow alleyway. An open door and a light in the window broke into the darkness.

  'Lo conosco,' he declared.

  'You know him?'

  'Sì è l'Inglese.'

  At first Bella felt she must have misunderstood; it seemed odd for an Englishman to be here, at this hour, in this state. English people only came up here in daylight, and as tourists. But then she realized that a brothel was a brothel to any man so inclined.

  The boy wanted to leave him there. He kept saying, 'Andiamo, Signora.'

  She tried to explain. They couldn't leave him here alone, like this. But the boy was adamant.'È pericoloso.'

  'Dangerous? Surely not that. Only drunk. Non è pericoloso. Solo ubriaco.'

  She leaned into the drunken man. 'Excuse me,' she began, 'I know it's none of my business, but, you know, you really ought—'

  The man groaned and his head rolled back slightly. Bella could hardly believe who she was looking at. 'Maestro Edward?' she said. 'Oh God.'

  The boy was looking slyly at her. She walked away and then came back. She walked away again. Then she told the boy to hold the torch over the man's face.

  She leaned in again. It was him. No doubt about it. Edward. Drunk. Edward known to this boy as the dangerous Englishman, a regular of the brothel, no less. She got such a fright, whatever bit of Italian she knew left her there and then. 'We must move him,' she said to the boy. 'He can't stay here.'

  The milk boy shrugged.

  'Let me see. All right. Oh God, how do I say it? You must help me. Help. Me. Lift. Him. Aiuto.'

  The boy just stared at her.

  'What the hell am I supposed to do now?' she asked. She gathered herself and then softly began, 'Edward. Edward? Can you hear me, Edward? It's me. Miss Stuart. Now you're going to have to try…' She took him by the chin, her hand a little shocked by the feel of his beard filling up her palm. 'Edward!' Her voice louder, sharp. Then she started to shake him. 'Edward! Wake up, for God's sake. Will you wake now. Please!'

  'Ah go and fuck off,' he snarled out of his stupor. Then he hit out at her.

  The boy jumped back. 'Signora! La prego. Andiamo,' he said.

  'No! We are not leaving him.' She approached him again. 'Edward, it's me. Look at me, Edward. You can't stay here. You just can't. Now, I'm going to help you get up.'

  His arm flew up again, and this time caught her on the side of her face. It shocked more than hurt, ringing through her jaw. After a moment she tried again, this time giving herself enough distance to allow her to jump out of the way.

  'Edward,' she began, 'I'm warning you, if you dare hit me again.'

  His eyes shot open and looked straight into hers without seeing who or what they were looking at.

  'Edward, it's me. Don't you know me?' she asked him. 'It's me. Anabelle Stuart.'

  'Ah fuck off, leavemealone. Jaysus sake.'

  Bella looked up. The boy had gone. Now what? She thought about running back for the priest, or going home for Elida or maybe calling on Cesare. But if Signora Lami ever found out about this, Edward would surely be dismissed and without a reference. Besides all that, there was Alec to consider. What would he do without his beloved Maestro?

  Voices came then. The milk boy from the direction of the brothel, with a man and a woman behind him. The man big, burly, in bare feet and undervest, his head shaved to the skull, a tattoo of a swastika on his upper arm. A sailor. A German. The woman pulled a shawl over her shoulders and up onto her head. She looked nothing like the sort Bella would have expected to find in a brothel.

  'English?' the German said to her.

  'Yes.'

  'Husband?'

  'No.'

  'No?'

  'I mean, yes.' She thought it would make the man more likely to help.

  The German threw back his head and laughed.

  'Pazzo,' the milk boy said, tapping the side of his head to indicate madness.

  The German crouched down to Edward. 'Ah yes,' he said. 'Come. Is all over now, my friend. God pity you in the morning.'

  Edward's arm lashed out; the German caught it and hauled him up. Edward's foot slipped as he came up and kicked the milk jug over.

  'Aiuta-mi,' the German said to the boy, who by now had a face as white as the pool of milk spilling from his jug.

  The German dragged Edward forward. Edward flopped over like a puppet, and then reared up suddenly and aimed a punch at the man. The man caught his hand and slapped Edward right in the mouth.

  'No!' Bella shouted, but the German just grinned at her.

  In a moment Edward was settled between the German and the milk boy. His head inclined, a bauble of blood from his mouth to his beard, arms outstretched across each of the bearer's shoulder.

  'We live on via Romano,' Bella had said then.

  'Forget that, lady,' the German replied.

  'Oh, but please, you must.'

  'Double the weight for a dead man. Triple for a drunk. It's not possible.' Then they dragged him back towards the brothel.

  The woman didn't seem to want Edward to return to the brothel but when she began to protest, the German snapped at her. Bella thought he said something like – 'You took his money now take his troubles.'

  The milk boy, who seemed like a child again beside the German, peeped out from under the arch of Edward's arm and told her to wait for him, he would be back to bring her safely home. Bella said that she would.

  As soon as they ent
ered the bordello, she crept away. It was almost light by then and she could find her own way home.

  *

  Alec starts school in October and to Bella's surprise settles in well, if a little warily. A fortnight later he comes down with a fever. Doctor Eaton, or Dottor Inglese as he is known to Rosa and Elida, says it's nothing to worry about: he's simply picked up a schoolboy virus – a common enough occurrence with a child who has just started school. His immune system would soon get used to the new environment. A few days in bed and he'd be fiddle-fit again.

  But Alec deteriorates by the hour, his temperature soars and when Bella tries to give him a drink, he is unable to focus on the cup, his hand reaching to the right and left of it, as if the cup is dancing around. She calls for the doctor again. 'I'm afraid it's pneumonia,' he says.

  It is decided not to move him to the hospital. The nurses are run off their feet as it is, with an epidemic of gastroenteritis – the last thing Alec needs. The doctor will send a private nurse instead. Nurse Willis, a very capable Scottish lady who is known for her special way with children. He himself will call every few hours. In the meantime sponge baths, and fluids – as much as they can persuade him to take. The nurse will set up a steam tent. And is there a room in the house with a ceiling fan?

  'Steaming him up on account of his lungs, cooling him down again on account of his temperature – that's what it's all about now,' the doctor cheerily says, picking up his bag and leaving the room. He gets as far as the door, and turns back. 'I don't wish to be alarmist but at this point it might be as well to inform the mother, have her standing by anyway, should the worst – well, just in case.'

  Edward carries Alec upstairs to the Signora's room – the closest room with a ceiling fan. His shirt is stuck to him with the sweat of Alec's fever. 'He's so hot,' Edward says, moments after he's put him down. 'It feels like I still have him here in my arms.'

  While Edward goes off to change his shirt, Nurse Willis arrives. 'Alec will have to be moved again,' she announces, the second she steps into the room.

  'Oh surely not?' Bella says.

  'Why, look at the bed, Miss Stuart! The bed is a ridiculous size – now how am I supposed to get at the laddie? And the steam tent – are we forgetting about that? It's a tent m'dear, not a marquee!'

  Edward moves him again, and again has to change his shirt. This time it's into Bella's room, which has the smallest bed in the house. It will seem strange to have people wandering around all hours of the day and night; it will make her fret a little about what they might see or surmise. And yet in some way it is a comfort too, having Alec in her room.

  The Signora cannot be located. Bella tries everywhere, by telephone, and later by telegram. She is not in Sicily. 'She rarely is these days to be honest,' the English housekeeper brusquely advises. 'Try Naples – why don't you?'

  'I have.'

  'Well, you'll just have to try it a-gain, Miss Stuart. And a-gain. That's all you can do. Keep trying.'

  'I have tried it again and a-gain. There's no answer from the house.'

  'No cause to get snippy, I'm sure. What about Signor Tassi's office?'

  'I don't have a telephone number.'

  'Well, I do, Miss Stuart, all you have to do is ask, you know.'

  The call to the office in Naples starts off well enough. Avvocato Tassi is in Germany on business, the Signora is certain to be with him, as she happens to be his client in this matter. Then Bella is connected to Tassi's private secretary, who can't resist an opportunity to show off his appalling and almost senseless English. She can't get him to switch back to Italian and in the end has to pretend to be called away, handing the phone over to Elida. 'Whatever you do,' she whispers, 'don't let him know you speak a word of English.'

  There is no telephone number for the Avvocato. There is no forwarding address. He could be in Dusseldorf, or maybe Bonn. As far as the secretary is aware there are business matters to attend to in both cities, although it's not his place to question his superiors. Naturally, as soon as the signori return or make contact he will pass the message on.

  Bella remembers then that Eugenia has relatives in Dusseldorf – presumably also related to the Signora. Eugenia isn't at home either but her maid manages to find the number for Dusseldorf.

  Getting a call through to Germany is an ordeal. Edward and Mrs Cardiff have to go to the British Consul, who in turn has to go to the mayor of Bordighera, who then turns to a bishop in Genoa. Eventually they are allowed to skip the usual formalities, and the call is put through to Dusseldorf. After all that trouble – the relatives have moved away. Emigrated, in fact. When or where, nobody seems to know or give much of a damn.

  Nurse Willis makes a little hospital ward out of Bella's room, complete with a steam tent that by now is the talk of Bordighera. All day, tubs and pots of boiling water are carted up and down the stairs by Elida, Rosa, Edward and even poor old bandy Cesare, until the corridor leading out of the kitchen begins to resemble a London alleyway in November. Neighbours have sent servants to lend a hand or have personally called with baskets of fruit he will never eat, and flowers he will never see. In one door and out the other, these gifts have been swiftly redistributed via a grateful Mrs Cardiff, to her various charities.

  Bella has been excused from water duties on account of her back problems and is kept upstairs to assist Nurse Willis, whose face pops in and out of the tent like a big boiled moon and gives her little jobs to do. Bella begins to wonder if Nurse Willis has won her reputation for having a special way with children because she treats everyone just like a child, even down to the way she delegates tasks and then lavishes praise on their completion. There is no doubt she is an excellent nurse – if at times irritatingly cheerful – and that she brings a much needed air of confidence into the sickroom. However, beyond taking his temperature or checking his pulse, Alec won't have her near him. It's the same when it comes to the doctor, any lingering and he begins to grow distressed. Weak and delirious as he now is, he makes it quite clear that Bella and Edward are the only ones he will allow to wash or change him.

  Nurse Willis accepts this rejection with good grace and in fact looks on it as a promising sign: 'Shows he's aware of the who's-who and what's-what!' she beams. Then, instructing them on how best to give a sponge bath and change the sweat-soaked sheets and dry him as quick as ever and leave his pores closed awhile before steaming them open again, she plucks her cigarettes out of her bag and leaves them at it while she 'pops out for a wee puff and a cup of tea'.

  On the night before Alec's tenth birthday the doctor weighs the lollipop of his stethoscope in his hand and tells them the next twelve hours can go either way. 'Any luck with the mother?' he asks then and Bella feels as if he has shoved his fist through her stomach and twisted her guts.

  She tries Naples again, and again. Still no sign of Avvocato and wife. And then Sicily. This time the English housekeeper is seething. 'Shoving him into a school with all sorts. I mean what's she expect? It would never 'ave done in old Signor Lami's day, I can tell you that straight off. Then she buggers off with not a word to no one. What sort is she anyway? Well, no sort of a mother, I can tell you.' There is a few seconds' silence and Bella thinks they've been disconnected. Then she realizes the English housekeeper is weeping.

  'Are you all right?' she asks.

  'I may never see him again. My poor little Ali Baba, my poor little lamb.'

  On the way back upstairs Bella meets Elida. Elida is also crying and for one awful moment Bella thinks the worst has happened. It turns out that Edward has 'growled as a dog' at her, only because she's suggested the priest. 'Growled as a dog, Signora Stuart, and say to me – get out of here with your stupid witch talk before Alesso hear and you frighten him.'

  Later that evening just after his steam bath, while they are changing his sheets, Bella on one side of the bed, Edward on the other, Alec seems to stop breathing. It's just a split second; such a short time in fact that Edward hasn't even noticed. Up to this point his breat
h has sounded like a tin of sewing needles being gently shaken from side to side. Now there has been that split second of silence. The steam is already on the wane and when she looks down through it, Alec is disappearing in front of her eyes. As if he is melting away with the steam. His narrow shoulders, the cage of his prominent ribs, even his thick coarse hair, all dissolving.

  She is about to put down the sheet and whisper his name. But then the needles resume shivering in his throat again. Bella, saying nothing to Edward, continues her task for a few more seconds. Then a large fat sob blurts out of her mouth. It just seems to fall out of its own accord. She puts her hand out as if to catch it and shove it back in.

  Edward reaches across and touches her arm. 'You go outside,' he says. 'I'll finish here.'

  She shakes her head and closes her eyes. 'Is? Is he?'

  'It's all right, Bella, it's all right. He's still here,' Edward says. 'He's still with us.'

  *

  Suddenly out of nowhere Alec improves. His temperature starts to slide towards normal, his breathing eases, the colour on his face and chest comes up, as the mottled look recedes. The doctor says, 'It's a bloody relief – I don't mind telling you.'

  Nurse Willis dismantles the steam tent. Edward apologizes to Elida. Elida, through her tears, graciously accepts – after she has made a slow sign of the cross and a pointed acknowledgement to the Madonna's intervention. Rosa, who has hardly been home in a week, kisses everyone in the room including Dottor Inglese and says she is off now to see if she can find, never mind recognize, her own children.

  'The crisis is over,' the doctor explains, 'but that doesn't mean he's recovered. He needs peace, quiet. Vigilance. He should sleep now for quite a bit, but the minute he opens his eyes, telephone me, no matter what time it is. If I don't hear from you I'll look in again first thing.'

  Bella says she will sit with him, after all it is her room and she has more of a right to be there than anyone else. 'So go,' she says, pushing Nurse Willis and Edward to the door. 'Go. Sleep. Eat. Smoke. Get drunk. Chase each other through the streets naked. Do whatever it is that pleases you. Just leave me.'