The Tuscan Child(9)
The mention of Germans made her face grow pinched and fearful again. She pulled the shawl more tightly around her. “You cannot walk at all?”
“I could try if you would support me. Just as far as the trees up there. Then I would be hidden.”
“The monastery,” she said with sudden emphasis. “I will take you to the monastery. You will be safe there.”
“Monastery?” Hugo reacted with the Protestant’s suspicion of all things Catholic, especially monks. “Are you sure that would be a good idea?”
“It is a ruin,” she said. “Nobody goes there now. But it would be a place to shelter, if you can make it that far.”
“Then let’s try. Maybe you could help me up?”
She put down her basket and lifted him under his armpits. She was remarkably strong for her frail appearance. He stood, sweating with pain as his wounded leg tried to take his weight.
“Come,” she said. “Put your arm around my shoulder. I will support you.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t. It’s not necessary,” he said, seeing his own size compared to hers now that he was standing in front of her.
“Don’t be stupid. You can’t walk without help. Come on. Do it.”
He did as she told him, conscious of her slight, bony shoulders under the shawl and not wanting such a delicate little thing to take his weight.
“That’s right,” she said. “Lean on me.”
He dragged the parachute pack in his other hand as they started forward between the rows of olive trees. The wind buffeted them, unfurling her shawl across their faces. The going was horribly rough—the soil soft and muddy in places, rocky and partly frozen in others. Hugo gritted his teeth and inched forward. At last they made it to the tree line. Some of the trees were now stark and bare, while others still bore leaves—evergreen oaks and among them a few tall, dark pines. Hugo paused and leaned gratefully against a solid tree trunk.
“I need to catch my breath,” he tried to say. Actually, he said, “I need to wait and breathe better.” His Italian had never progressed enough to be idiomatic.
“Let us move a little further into the woods. Here you may still be seen. We never know where the Germans may be lurking.” She urged him forward.
They stumbled between trees, slithering on wet leaves, tripping over roots. Here the air smelled rich and moist and the world was completely still. The woman left him, darting forward to snatch at a dangling branch. “Oh look, chestnuts,” she said. “That is good. Usually all the wild chestnuts have been found by this time of year. And I see some mushrooms growing on that trunk. I will pick them on my way home.”
“And I see a dead branch lying over there,” he said. “If you would pick it up for me, I could try to use it as a crutch.”
“Good idea.” She lifted the heavy branch, shaking off dead leaves. “If we break it about here”—and she did so, the branch giving a loud crack as it snapped—“it should be just right.”
He tucked the thicker end under his armpit. “Yes, I think it might work.”
He gave her a hopeful little grin and she returned his smile. “That is good.” He noticed the way her whole face lit up as she smiled. Hidden beneath that shawl, she could have been any peasant woman of any age. Now he realised she was little more than a girl with a cheeky smile and dark eyes that sparkled.
“Now comes the difficult part,” she said. “I hope it will not be too much for you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
JOANNA
April 1973
Miss Honeywell and I parted company amicably. She even invited me to come and have a glass of sherry with her that evening if I was going to be alone in the lodge. I thanked her courteously but part of me was dying to shout out, “You old hypocrite. Do you not remember how foul you were to me?” I had always suspected she resented the fact that my father had a title and so no matter what else was taken from him she still had to call him Sir Hugo. I’m sure it rankled.
I walked slowly back up the drive, conscious of the sweet scent of the hyacinth and narcissus blooming on either side and the smell of newly cut grass that wafted from where the mower had been working. I hesitated outside the front door of the lodge, suddenly not wanting to go in and see what had become of my father’s life. I had not come home frequently after I’d left school. Father and I found conversation awkward, and things sometimes devolved into arguments or even shouting matches, so we tended to meet for lunch at a pub somewhere. We could both be cheerful for the time it took to eat a good roast and some apple pie.
I fitted the big key into the lock and turned it. The door swung open with the sort of creak you often heard when someone was entering a haunted house on radio plays. I stepped inside, recoiling at the stale odour that hung in the air—rotting food mingled with cigarette smoke and clothes that needed washing. It was clear that he had left right after breakfast. The remains of a boiled egg, toast in the silver toast rack, an empty teacup, and a milk jug stood on the table. This I actually found reassuring. If he had been meaning to kill himself he would certainly not have had a boiled egg for breakfast first. Neither would he have left the milk out to spoil. My father had always been fastidious. The state of the milk made me realise that it was not this very morning that he had died but at least a day ago, after Miss Honeywell had walked her dog yesterday morning. And this was followed by more worrying thoughts: had he simply keeled over and dropped dead? Had he lain in the grass, calling for help? Could he have been saved if someone had heard him?