Flood Tide (3 page)

“Ah…” He took off his jacket and put it in the overhead compartment. “Thus speaks the dedicated art mistress.”

“I don’t believe this is a coincidence at all,” said Reah with a spurt of indignation. “I can’t imagine why, but I think you actually arranged to take this flight and sit next to me.”

“The flight, yes. The seat, no…merely a computer fluke. I confess that I did know you were flying to Florence today. Miss Hardcastle told me. That nice lady has a soft spot for you. I happened to mention last week that I was going to Florence to research for a new play, and she asked me to keep an eye on you. She said you hadn’t flown before, or been abroad on your own. How could I refuse? I almost felt sorry for you,” he added.

“There’s no need to be sorry for me,” said Reah, her colour rising slightly. “I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

“That’s a relief. I’ve really got far too much to do in the short time I shall be in Florence. But Miss Hardcastle is a gently persuasive lady. I began to feel quite saintly.”

“No need to feel like that on my behalf. I have everything arranged for my stay.”

“Then perhaps I could have my seat?”

Reah bent to shift her bag from the narrow space on the floor, forgetting that she had not unfastened the seat belt. Her fingers would not obey her as she struggled with the clasp; the fuselage doors clamped shut and the seat belt and no smoking signs went on.

The big jet was ready for take-off.

“It’s too late now,” said Ewart, fastening himself into the seat next to her. “Stay where you are. I’m going to work.”

He took a folder out of his briefcase and began to read through some papers.

Reah gripped the armrests as the Trident gathered speed along the runway. The vibration of the gigantic wheels shook her spine. The sense of speed was at the same time exhilarating and frightening.

Ewart noticed the clenched fingers and shot a glance at her tense face. At the very moment that the plane lifted off and went into a sharp angled climb, he put his hand over her own. She was acutely aware of his masculine presence. Trees and hedges were suddenly left below. The Surrey countryside became Lilliputian, the roads ribbons, fields a patchwork quilt of browns and greens.

Wisps of cloud streamed past the window, then there was nothing more to see as the plane climbed through a belt of thick cloud. It broke through into another world, dazzling with sunshine, the unbroken blue of the sky stretching endlessly.

Reah was spellbound. Ewart removed his hand without comment. They were soon over the English Channel and through breaks in the clouds, she saw bobbing fishing boats and the sandy line of the French coast.

When she caught a first glimpse of the majestic, snow-crested Alps, she could not contain her excitement.

“Look, look,” she said, tugging Ewart’s sleeve. “The Alps! Aren’t they beautiful?”

He leaned across her and she caught a whiff of his after-shave. It was a subtle, poignant scent and came as a surprise. Her father had smoked a pipe and the aroma of tobacco had always clung to him.

“Marvellous,” he agreed.

He was too close. There were strands of grey among the light brown hair falling over his ears. They were infinitely touching as if each grey hair was a sadness in his life, or the price of overwork. Her gaze wandered over his skin. He had a tiny blemish near the corner of his eye: a tiny mole that flawed his handsome features and made him vulnerable. His lashes were blunt and speckled, veiling his eyes now as he squinted against the bright sun.

She was trapped against the back of her seat. If he came any closer, she would not be able to resist touching his hair. It looked so fine, newly washed and she knew it would be soft. She imagined him standing in the shower as naked as Michelangelo’s David, the soap suds running down his glistening brown skin.

Then Reah reminded herself who he was. This was no vulnerable, dreamy poet but a hard and ruthless writer.

It was unbearable. She shut her eyes with a sharp intake of breath.

“Ah, breakfast,” he said, bringing everything back to normal.

At Pisa airport, she lost him. They were queuing up to go through Immigration Control, and without a word, he vanished. Reah told herself she did not want his company. After retrieving her suitcase, she found the coach going into the city.

It was hot. The Italian sunshine was much stronger than the English summer she had left behind.

Tuscany was a beautiful area: a region of thickly wooded hills, snowy peaks and lush vineyards laden with fruit. Rows of tall, dark cypress trees marched up the hillsides, and the olive groves filled every space in the fertile valleys.

It was a long, winding drive to the outskirts of Florence. Even the outlying villages, picturesquely shabby, had their share of unexpected glory…an ancient church, a bell tower, a sprawling villa.

The city of Florence was a sun trap that lay within a circle of low hills. The dun-coloured river Arno, once a mountain torrent, flowed past little streets and under many bridges. Dominating the city was the immense terracotta dome, a feat of medieval engineering.

“Brunelleschi,” Reah murmured in awe.

Tourists thronged the pavements, gaping at every artistic achievement, while noisy little Fiats and Vespas ripped along the streets.

She had made a reservation through her local travel agent at an inexpensive pensione in a street some distance from the walled city centre. A bus dropped her off at the end of the small street and she was just congratulating herself on finding the pensione without any trouble, when she noticed something strange about the appearance of the narrow, old house.

All the shutters were closed. She put down her case and rapped the heavy brass knocker. There was no answer.

She wiped her damp hair back from her forehead. It was the hottest part of the day and she was longing for a wash and fresh clothes.

She began to think that she ought to ask someone, but her Italian was minimal.

“
Pensione Orsaria?
” She stopped passers-by, waving her hands towards the shuttered house. They returned blank stares, then a neighbour appeared and in loud and rapid Italian explained the situation to Reah. She was no wiser.

“In English, please…” she pleaded, shaking her head.

A girl student came to Reah’s aid. Her English was good enough to give Reah the bad news.

“The
madre
, the
grande-madre
, has died. The family go to funeral in Naples. Much family business to attend. Not return this week,” said the girl. “You go Tourist Office in station.”

By the time Reah found the Tourist Office, her soft-topped case seemed to weigh a ton. She was hot, sticky and worried about accommodation for the night.

The woman in the Tourist Office was helpful but not hopeful. Everywhere in Florence was fully booked. She could only offer the top luxury hotels or a crash pad at a youth hostel.

“A crash pad?” Reah felt she had reached the depths. She longed to give up the whole expedition and back track to her cottage in Southdean. The wonders of Florence no longer seemed worth the effort.

“The hostels are clean and cheap,” the woman reassured her. “You may have to share with two or three; some have dormitories. They are very popular and always full. You may only get one night. Shall I find a place for you?”

Reah nodded. She had no choice. The woman made some phone calls and then wrote down an address on a piece of paper with directions for finding the hostel. Reah thanked her, shattered by her bad luck. Perhaps some village would have rooms free. But she would not go without first seeing the giant cupola of Brunelleschi.

She had picked up a map in the Tourist Office. The Via de Panzani would lead her to the Piazza del Duomo, to the steps of the great cathedral, the Sante Maria del Fiore, the largest church in the world after St Peter’s in Rome.

It was a tiring walk in the sunshine carrying her case. The red and green marble of the exterior of the cathedral was unexpectedly bright and took some getting used to. The great dome dwarfed everything in the busy, bustling square.

Next to the cathedral stood Giotto’s 14th century Campanile, one of the most beautiful bell towers in the world. Reah had planned to climb its four hundred-fourteen steps to see the famous panoramic view of Florence’s rooftops.

She was quite exhausted. She sank down onto a high, uneven curbstone, not bothered by the dozens of feet almost stepping on her; she was past caring.

A pair of expensive Ruchi brown leather shoes stopped a few feet away, hesitated, then returned. Reah did not look up. He could laugh all he wanted to. She was too tired to move.

“What’s the matter?” he asked sharply, looking closer at her pale face. “Homesick already?”

Reah’s hazel eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back quickly.

She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that her plans had gone awry and that after tonight, she had nowhere to sleep.

“Go away, please,” she moaned, hanging her head. The heat on the back of her neck was making her feel sick. She thought of her cool English garden, full of sweet peas and marigolds, and she was ready to burst into tears.

“You’ll get sunstroke sitting there,” he said brusquely, helping her to her feet. “And get dehydrated. What have you had to drink? Nothing? I thought so. Come along, you stupid girl. You need some iced
limone
.”

Ewart picked up her case. Reah felt so ill she would have left it on the pavement. He took her arm and threaded through the pavement tables, and down a quieter side street. A little
trattoria
had a few tables outside shaded with green umbrellas.

“Have you eaten since our airline breakfast?”

Reah shook her head.

“For a school teacher, you have little common sense,” he said, ordering a lasagne, lemonade and
caffe freddo
for himself. “That’s iced coffee,” he translated for her benefit.

Reah took a deep breath. Her strength was beginning to return. She brushed her hair away from her face, her forehead damp with the heat.

“I have had one hell of a morning,” she said. “The last thing on my mind was food or drink. While you were settling into your air-conditioned, luxury accommodation, I was tramping the streets in the sweltering heat trying to find somewhere to sleep tonight.”

“Didn’t you make a reservation before you arrived? Florence is always packed out.”

“Of course, I did; I am not that dim. My travel agent booked me into a small pensione, but when I got there, it was completely shut up. The grandmother had died and the whole family has gone to Naples for the funeral. I went to the Tourist Office in the station and they found me a crash pad for the night.”

“Is that what I dread to think it is?”

“A youth hostel. Very basic.”

The
signora
arrived with a steaming plate of lasagne covered in a rich sauce, iced lemonade and iced coffee for Ewart.

“The
signora
makes the pasta herself. In the early morning you can see sheets of green pasta hung all over the chairs.”

Reah choked. “Pasta hung chairs are a little hard to take especially when one is eating it,” she said.

She looked at the man who had tried to make money out of her father’s death. She had imagined a monster; tough, Ewart Morgan might be, but she also saw a very human person. He obviously did not connect her with the famous yachtsman. Nor did she want him to know.

“I’m here to write about the great flood,” he said with a wry grin. “Disasters are my specialty.”

Reah knew only too well that disasters were his specialty, other people’s tragedies. “Oh, you mean that flood,” she said. “The one in 1966?”

His brown eyes darkened. “It did an irrevocable amount of damage,” he said after a long pause. “It destroyed thousands of priceless art treasures. The night of November 4th, more than two hundred millimetres of rain fell in twenty-four hours. That’s a quarter of the average annual rainfall for the whole of Italy. Four million cubic yards of water raced to the sea and broke the Arno’s banks.”

Reah shivered despite the heat of the afternoon. She pushed away threads of her frightening dream. thrust away memories of her father’s death. But she could not forget that it was this man, sitting opposite her, who was enmeshed in both haunting shadows. And here was water again, suffocating water

“A great mass built up,” Ewart went on. “Diesel oil, refuse, chemicals, dyes and tons of mud. A horrendous wave of slime hit Florence with fiendish force. It swept away houses, broke down doors, tossed cars into piles, crushed monuments, uprooted trees, exploded furniture. It was a nightmare, Reah, not only for the thousands of people caught in the little streets and basements, but a disaster for the ancient treasures of Florence.”

“People were drowned?” she asked in a strained voice.

“Over forty. It was a miracle there were not many more. It was a public holiday and people were sleeping late in their beds. There was no panic or stampede to leave the city. People climbed higher and watched, stunned, as their beautiful city disappeared under water. Just imagine their feelings, Reah. When the water went, Florence was knee-high in stinking slime.”

“Why are you writing a play about it?”