The Captain's Daughter (57 page)

Perhaps a few new tops and slacks would not go amiss. Clare refused to compromise, insisting Ella bought a fitted swimming costume and decent underwear, two sundresses, some Capri pants and a smart evening dress. ‘You could look really glam, if you just tried a little harder.’

‘I shall stay out of the sun or my skin will end up like crinkled leather after a few weeks in the heat. It did last time.’

How strange to be wandering across Europe again, this time in style and comfort, staying in a mini palazzo rather than some flea-bitten mattress in an attic. Ella smiled, thinking of her old self, free-spirited, fancy free, strolling through the French markets with just a few centimes in her pocket. The young have no fear, no cause to doubt the future, she mused. She’d once been confident, gregarious, so sure of herself, but not any more. She envied her daughter. How beautiful was the bloom on Clare’s young face. She hoped no Italian Lothario would wipe that shine away: war had taken its toll on her generation. It mustn’t scar the next.

War had been exciting and dangerous at first, and Ella had relished living for the moment, her life full of passion and risk, but grief and loss had been its unavoidable consequences. How she wanted to protect Clare from heartbreak. She was glad she was finished with romance and the agonies of being in love, but Clare had it all ahead of her.

Italy, July 1959

Roddy stood dumbstruck by the sheer number of white crosses in the American War Cemetery outside Florence. He paced along the granite panels lined with the names of the missing, looked up at the tall stone pylon and saluted his comrades before the hillside chapel. He thought of all the men he had known who were buried here, and with that thought came the inevitable flashbacks to faces, smells and explosions.

Here, everything was so clean, so beautifully preserved, so quiet, so American in its efficiency and detail, and so very moving. Angelo was not up to the long journey so Kathleen wept at her son’s grave alone and Roddy held young Frankie’s hand, praying he’d never have to know such a life-changing experience. He was too young to understand much of it, but the atmosphere touched both his children just the same as they tiptoed round the graves, curious but respectful.

He wanted them all to see what sacrifice looked like. Every one of those crosses was a life unlived, a lighted candle stubbed out before its time. We make death clean and peaceful, clinical and safe here, he thought, but it was not like that the first time they crossed this country. Battle was a filthy business.

They’d arrived in Rome and made as many of the cultural tours as they could. Jetlagged, after many hours of flight, they had stood in St Peter’s Square soaking up the atmosphere of Vatican City, before driving to Florence so Kathleen and the family could pay their respects. Now she knew where her boy lay it would help her to rest her own sadness.

Roddy hadn’t expected to cry to feel the tears running down his cheeks at the sight of such vast fields of the dead. Memories flooded over him and he wondered if such emotion would spoil the rest of their vacation.

‘Why’s Daddy crying?’ asked Tina as Patti held him.

‘Because this is where his friends lie. They never got to go home with him. Your uncle Frank is here too.’

‘Did we win the war then?’ Frankie asked.

‘No one wins a war, honey. They just think they do.’

Two days later they arrived in Tuscany to find an old rambling country house on the edge of the medieval walled town of Anghiari. It was perched high on a wooded slope with a magnificent view over the plain, and the scent of cypresses, pine and herbs perfumed the air, taking Roddy right back to his time on the run. He recalled those fearful nights hiding in the woods by day, and the smell of the farmyard, the sweaty stench of the cattle shed and oil lamps by night.

He couldn’t wait to visit all those outlying
contadini
who’d sheltered him. Over the years he’d made sure Patti’s Italian relatives and friends received gifts in kind: fresh tyres for their trucks, clothing in parcels. The Bartolinis knew they were coming and he’d brought gifts from Angelo, his old uncle Salvi and his children. They were going to host the biggest party for everyone later on when the British contingent arrived.

He wondered how his mom and Archie would cope with the travelling, and if Ella would turn up late or not at all. They’d not met since Clare was a baby when he had briefly touched down in England on his way home.

Ella was such an unknown to him now. She chose not to come to his wedding, which had hurt, he admitted. She was modest about her success and reputation as a sculptor. Her infrequent letters were full of Clare, never herself. She was the nearest thing he had to a sister and he hoped there would be time for them to get to know each other all over again. He wanted her to like Patti and Kathleen and feel they were all one big family.

She’d always been a loner, an outsider, brought into their midst through the kindness of his grandfather and mother. She had no one but Clare, no family to call her own but his. He hoped she’d soften to the idea of them all mucking in together. He really didn’t understand artists very much, but this was the birthplace of so many and down the road was the very birthplace of the famous Michelangelo. He wanted everyone to feel at home here as much as he did.

Celeste gazed up at Villa Collina with amazement. It was picture-postcard pretty with golden stone, and painted shutters and a terracotta pantiled roof. It stood tall, majestic in a setting of olive groves surrounded by woods with a gracious drive up to the castellated house. Trust Roddy to find the most beautiful spot. They had lunched in the Piazza Baldacci in Anghiari, marvelling at the high walls of the medieval streets, the wonderful ancient buildings. It was all so very Italian and well worth the long journey, even if the dry heat was not what she was used to. It was like a fairytale setting. She expected men in doublet and hose to leap out onto the cobbles and start duelling and to see Juliet sitting on a balcony waiting for her Romeo.

Later, after unpacking in a beautiful bedroom with the most exquisite gilded mirror she’d ever seen, Celeste joined the others who were sipping wine in the shade, watching the sun slowly sinking across to the west.

She watched Frankie and Tina playing games on the sloping lawn. Frankie was all legs, had braces on his teeth, and dark hair, not a bit like Roddy. It was Tina, with red curls like her mother and grandmother, who was going to be the beauty. Frankie reminded her of somebody but no one she could bring to mind at that moment. They were polite but lively children and a credit to their parents. She was going to make the most of her time with her grandchildren and spoil them as much as she dared.

What a mixed bunch they all were. Archie was sitting back with some historical tome on his lap, soaking in the sun. Kathleen had produced her knitting and Patti was rushing round making sure the housekeeper and staff knew that there were other guests still to arrive before they served a candlelight dinner on the terrace.

How would they all get on for three weeks? It was the longest holiday she’d ever had but there was enough land and space for them not to get on top of each other.

Kathleen said there was a lovely shop in Sansepolcro nearby where you could buy local lace. ‘The lace for Patti’s wedding dress came from there but the handmade veil, the Bartolini family sent as a gift. I think it was Maria’s. It has such a beautiful patterns, very distinctive.’

She daren’t let on that she’d never really noticed the motifs or any detail of the wedding dress, being so in awe of the whole event, nervous at meeting more Irish and Italian families and trying to fit into their wedding customs. Patti had looked like a film star.

She glanced at her watch. Ella and Clare were late again. She hoped the journey hadn’t been too much for them. Perhaps they had got lost. This visit had been planned with Forester military precision, down to their itinerary: where to find the best churches, restaurants and overnight stops, route maps and must-see sites. Dear Roddy had set such store on this reunion. She hoped Ella would rise to the occasion and not let them down.

There was so much to see and so little time if they wanted to find Villa Collina in time for supper. Ella resented the rush southwards, wanting this time alone with Clare to last for ever. They’d driven slowly down through France and lingered around Florence, taking in all the sites, including the Uffizi with its famous statue of David. It was wonderful to share her old haunts with her child, to see the magic through her eyes, to wander the streets and gawp at all the magnificent architecture. They’d fallen in love with Siena and Arezzo, the food and wine especially, and had relished living off salads and fish and wonderful pasta.

As they’d climbed up towards Anghiari, Ella found herself slowing down, reluctant to give up this precious time, unsure how she felt about being tagged on to Celeste’s expanding family once again. She’d not plucked up the courage to tell Clare about May’s confession either. Every time she thought about it, her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps later, after a glass or three of wine.

Roddy was being so generous and it felt mean-spirited to be resentful. If only she had a larger family of her own to share. It was funny how, as the years went on, she was feeling more and more awkward. She and May had been dependent on the kindness of strangers all their lives, for shelter and education. Celeste had been like a mother to her but her whole life had been shrouded in mystery and now it was almost too late to discover the truth. No one had ever claimed her, that was for sure.

Interest in the
Titanic
and its memorabilia was still growing. There were books and articles, even societies forming. It wasn’t too late to share her mysterious history and discover more herself, but in a funny way she felt ashamed of being a nobody. As Anthony’s widow, she had a secure standing, and if Clare had children one day, she’d be a grandma in her own right. Surely that was enough?

‘You’re going the wrong way, Mummy!’ yelled Clare. ‘It’s to the left, not to the right.’

‘Damn, are you sure?’ The lanes were steep and narrow. ‘Let me see.’ She stopped the car to look at the map. How on earth was she going to turn round here?

A sports car stopped behind them, seeing their dilemma, and a man came to the window. ‘Please . . . inglese? You are lost, I can help?’

‘Dove e Villa Collina, per favore?’
Ella asked, trying her best Italian on the stranger.

‘Ah, Signor Forester, yes? Turn around.’ He pointed, smiling. ‘No, better follow me. I will take you.’

‘There’s no need,’ Ella protested.

‘I take you. Follow,’ he commanded as if there was no argument.

‘Wow,’ said Clare. ‘He looks just like Vittorio de Sica.’

‘Who?’ Ella snapped, reversing down the lane, aware she was swerving.

‘The film star . . . Oh, never mind, just follow him. You’re hopeless, Mummy,’ said Clare, exasperated. They were both tired. It was almost dusk and they were nearly there. Ella mustered her flagging spirits for one last effort. You will enjoy this holiday whether you like it or not, she muttered inwardly as the entrance to Villa Collina came into view.

As the days turned into weeks, they fell easily into a pattern of lazy mornings, lunch in the nearest café, siestas, sightseeing and long suppers under the stars, each relating their day’s activities.

They drove into Arezzo to see the frescoes of Piera della Franscesca, marvelling at his
Legends of the True Cross.
They enjoyed lazy picnics by the river and Roddy visited as many of the old haunts as he could find. Some farmsteads were sadly now nothing but ruins, their inhabitants scattered. Other families had built new villas, and white stuccoed houses rose up from new sites on hillsides. But signs of neglect and poverty were everywhere. Life had been tough here after the war and local children were leaving for cities and the States.

There was always a royal welcome of recognition from these kind people, older and more weathered by the sun and wind, their children now married with children of their own. The highlight was taking Kathleen, Patti and their children to the Bartolinis’ farmhouse. The reunion was tearful as they passed around precious photographs.

It was here that Roddy heard what had really happened to Father Frank, mistaken for an escaping prisoner by renegade militia deserters, murdered in cold blood. His body had been left to rot, but had been found by a hunter and taken back to camp. There’d been an inquiry and the German commandant was removed for letting the old priest into the camp. But when the local partisans found out what had happened to one of their own, they’d taken it upon themselves to finish off each of these militiamen in cold revenge.

Only then did Roddy realize the full cost of his escape. It was hard to take in the news without breaking down. Giovanni took his arm. ‘It was war,
amico
, these things happen. It will not happen again.’

Roddy wasn’t sure. Human nature was both kind and cruel. He thought of Frank’s words all those years ago. The families that had sheltered him were quite capable of turning their guns on each other if crossed, the animal instinct in all of them was plain to see. The meaner streets of New York and Chicago were no different. He’d seen enough violence to last a lifetime. He wanted only peace for his kids.

‘We didn’t come here to be miserable, honey. We came here to celebrate and thank these kind people. We must invite all of you to our villa to dine with us and meet the rest of our family,’ Patti ordered, seizing the moment and saving the day. ‘We’ll send cars to fetch you all.’

Clare was watching the chattering lace makers with interest as they sat in their doorways with their cushions and stools along the narrow streets of Sansepolcro. The tall buildings sheltered the ladies from the heat of the sun as they wandered round the ancient city examining the shop windows, sitting in the piazza and watching the world pass by. They had dined in the Albergo Fiorentini the night before, savouring its wonderful dishes, aware that its high walls were full of souvenirs from Napoleonic times. When they heard the story of how one of Napoleon’s officers had defected and married a local girl, to establish this restaurant, Archie had nodded. ‘You can see why a soldier would prefer this to a route march, and the women are so beautiful here.’