Never such innocence, p.23
Never Such Innocence, page 23
Raffaella and her elder brother had had to flee to the mountains after some unspecified trouble with the Germans and had joined a local band of partisans. He had found a niche at once with the men, but she told Julia that she had been unhappy for months, struggling with the other women to force local villagers to disgorge food, humping it back up to the camp and preparing it under extraordinarily difficult conditions. There were days when the leaders of the band refused to let them light any kind of fire in case German patrols found them and yet they somehow still had to produce food that the men could eat.
She seemed to skate over the next part of her story, but Julia grasped the salient part, which was that one of the English officers who fought with the Italians had fallen in love with her, promised to marry her and secretly made love to her. It was clear that he made her life happier than it had been, but she still had to put up with the desperately uncomfortable conditions and go out on her terrifying foraging expeditions. On one of them she was picked up for questioning by the Germans.
Julia flinched as she heard that and wondered how she herself would have stood up to the kind of life Raffaella was describing.
The Germans had no idea who she was and the villagers from whom she had been begging food had not betrayed her and she was allowed to go without suffering anything much worse than a slapped face and an hour’s sarcastic, sneering interrogation. After that, she told Julia, she was even more afraid of leaving the doubtful sanctuary of the partisans’camp, particularly as she had begun to feel rather ill. When she belatedly realised that she must be pregnant she could not tell the Englishman, because he was away from the camp leading an action against an important German supply dump.
Unfortunately other people in the camp had by then also realised her condition and someone had told her brother. Berserk with rage, he had called her a slut and worse and demanded the name of the father. Frightened for the Englishman, because she well knew that her brother had an uncontrollable temper, she did not tell him anything. Then he started beating her.
Raffaella described her injuries in indignant Italian, ticking each one off on her fingers, but Julia could understand only something about cracked ribs and something about her eyes. Even that was bad enough.
‘Did you not tell him about the Englishman?’ Julia asked slowly, trying to imagine a world in which an illegitimate pregnancy could provoke such a punishment.
Raffaella lifted her chin proudly and shook her head.
‘He would have killed him,’ she said slowly in English and then reverted to Italian again. Struggling through the cotton wool that seemed to have been stuffed into her brain, Julia found that announcement of savagery almost impossible to believe. While she was framing a question that would not sound insultingly doubtful, Raffaella went on telling her story. She told Julia that she had put the blame for her child on to one of the Germans who had arrested her. Her brother was disgusted and called her a filthy collaborator, but at least the Englishman was safe. Only his return stopped the beating her brother gave her.
The Englishman had her carried to her makeshift tent so that her wounds could be attended to, and then he heard the story from her brother. When at last he came to see her, he obviously believed in the story of the German and she was too proud to tell him the truth. He gave her physical protection, but never showed her any affection again. After the liberation he saw that she escaped her brother’s clutches and got to Rome with enough money to keep her and have the baby safely.
‘And was it enough?’ Julia asked, trying to make sense of the story.
‘No,’ answered Raffaella and then went on to tell Julia with no self-consciousness at all that she became a prostitute in Rome, where the dollar-rich American soldiers were prepared to pay a small fortune to a good-looking, elegant girl. All was apparently well until her brother followed her to Rome, discovered her whereabouts and threatened to kill both her and her ‘half-German’ baby. To save both their lives, Raffaella had left her lucrative work in Rome and fled to Venice, where Giovanna had taken her in.
‘But why?’ said Julia, feeling stupid. ‘Why should he have wanted to kill you?’
‘He is mad,’ said Raffaella flatly. ‘The war was perfect for him: he could beat people and kill them and be proud of it. He hated me because he had to be ashamed of me. He called me a puttana … you understand?’
Julia nodded.
‘So he could not be proud any more. They mocked him. It made him mad and he wanted to kill me. If he finds me again,’ said Raffaella at last, her greenish eyes dilated in apparently genuine fear, ‘he will try again to kill me. I have to go. And there is nowhere to go except to England. Perhaps there I can find his father and we will be safe.’
She dropped a hand on the child’s dark head and stared pleadingly at Julia.
Julia was not at all sure that she had followed all the details of the story, and did not believe everything she had been told, but she did accept that Raffaella was genuinely afraid.
‘Do you know where this Englishman lives?’ she asked.
Raffaella shook her head.
‘But I could find him,’ she said.
Julia did not feel up to assessing the likelihood of that just then.
‘I will write to England and ask,’ she said carefully, finding it increasingly painful even to speak. She had had many colds during the last few years, but this one seemed much the worst. It seemed to be affecting her brain as much as her breathing. ‘I must go, Raffaella. When I have news I will tell you.’
Then she went upstairs to tell Giovanna that she thought she would not be able to stay for her Italian lesson, because she felt so ill, and took herself painfully back across the Grand Canal to her temporary home. By the time she reached the Campo San Maurizio, she felt so tired that she was almost afraid she would have to climb the cold stone stairs to the first floor on her hands and knees.
There were lights in all the windows and as Julia slowly walked up the stairs, she could hear the sound of cheerful voices from the salon. Mingling with that of David was Anthony’s, sounding far happier and more relaxed than she had heard it for weeks. Forgetting Raffaella’s story, almost forgetting her headache and her cold, Julia pushed open the double doors to see the two men standing around the stove, glasses in their hands, laughing.
‘Hello,’ she said hoarsely, pleased to see them at ease with each other again.
‘Julia,’ said Anthony. ‘Good God! Are you all right?’
She nodded.
‘I’ve just got rather a cold,’ she said.
‘Come and get warm,’ said David almost at the same time as Anthony was saying:
‘You ought to have a hot whisky and lemon. I’ll see if Annunziata’s got any lemons.’
‘I’ll go,’ said David, putting down his glass and hurrying out of the room.
‘Did you get her?’ Julia asked. ‘Is she all right?’
Anthony nodded. He had promised Comfort that he would tell no one about the woman who had spat at her and called her filthy names.
‘Yes. She’s upstairs dressing,’ he said. ‘She wanted to impress you with some new clothes she bought in France.’
‘Oh dear,’ murmured Julia, looking down at her baggy tweed coat and skimpy straight skirt. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy to change.’
‘No, much better recruit your energies,’ said Anthony, just as David returned carrying a jug of hot water and two slices of lemon on a plate.
‘There’s no sugar left,’ he said almost as though it were a major tragedy.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Julia. ‘I’ll just have whisky and hot water then.’ She lay back against the hard sofa, sipping the drink when David brought it to her and swallowing with difficulty. She was roused only by the sound of the door’s opening.
‘Comfort!’ Anthony’s voice opened Julia’s eyes and she saw her sister-in-law standing in the doorway wearing a most remarkable dress. The tightly fitting bodice was cut quite low over Comfort’s small bosom. The waist was dropped, emphasising the long elegant lines of her figure, and the huge, spreading skirt fell at least six inches below her knees. The astonishing garment was made of some smooth material in a mixture of very dark greens and blues which flattered her blonde hair and made her slate-coloured eyes even more ravishing than usual.
‘You look absolutely stunning,’ said Anthony. ‘Come and have a glass of wine and meet David Wallington.’
Julia glanced sideways at David, feeling very much at a disadvantage in her old brownish-grey tweeds. She expected to see him gazing at Comfort in the admiration she deserved, but in fact he was looking down at Julia.
‘Are you really all right?’ he said with a seriousness that made the familiar question matter. Julia nodded and pulled herself up from the sofa.
‘Darling Julia,’ said Comfort, sounding at her most American and her most caressing. She held out her arms.
‘I can’t kiss you,’ said Julia hoarsely, ‘because I’ve got a foul cold. But it is wonderful to see you, Comfort.’
‘Never mind the cold,’ said Comfort, putting her arms around Julia and laying her smooth cool cheek against Julia’s hot one. She whispered: ‘You do know how much I really care about you, don’t you?’
‘I know,’ said Julia, pulling herself back. ‘It’s all right, Comfort. There’s no need for great drama.’
Comfort was hurt and showed it. Julia thought that her cold must be softening her brain. Nothing was more calculated to put Comfort in a bad mood than a piece of unnecessary criticism like that.
‘This is Anthony’s David Wallington,’ said Julia, deciding to ignore her mistake. ‘David, this is Comfort, of whom you have heard Anthony and me speak so often.’
‘Yes indeed. How do you do?’ he said, holding out a large hand. Comfort shook it and murmured something formally polite, but she looked him over in rather obvious disdain, tilting back her small head to see his face. It seemed that she was not impressed for, having completed her examination, she turned ostentatiously away to follow Anthony to the table where the wine stood. They stayed there, talking quietly together until Annunziata came in to lay the table.
Anthony introduced Comfort, who immediately started talking in fluent, fast Italian, which made Julia feel as inadequate and insular as she had ever done at Comfort’s university parties. It also made Julia angry, pointing up the unnecessary rudeness of Comfort’s dismissal of David.
Julia made no effort to talk then, because her throat hurt so much, but later, over dinner, she felt that she had at least to try. It became obvious as soon as Annunziata handed round the soup tureen that Comfort was deliberately trying to exclude David from the conversation and show him how de trop he was. Julia deliberately turned to him to explain the significance of Comfort’s private jokes and fill in the background whenever she mentioned the name of one of their friends whom David could not know. After a moment he unobtrusively laid a hand on her knee and said:
‘Don’t try to talk. It must hurt so much. I’m all right.’
Julia smiled at him and then looked across the round table at Anthony as though to persuade him to get Comfort to behave better, but either he misunderstood her signals or did not care enough, for he sat, watching his sister, laughing at her jokes and joining in her reminiscences.
By the time dinner was cleared, Julia thought that she had never felt so tired. When Anthony suggested that they all go for a walk to see St Mark’s by moonlight and have their coffee in Florian’s, Julia shook her head.
‘Honestly, Anthony,’ she said with a sigh, ‘I think I’ll be better in bed. This wretched cold is making me feel bloody. Would you mind terribly if I stayed at home?’
‘No, of course not, Julia,’ said Anthony, smiling at her with more sympathy than he had managed to show for weeks. ‘I’ll look in when we get back and see if you need dosing with anything. David?’
‘I’ll stay and keep Julia company until she goes to bed,’ David answered easily enough. ‘I’ve a stack of papers to read before the next sitting. Next time perhaps, Miss Gillingham,’ he added, turning politely to Comfort.
‘Perhaps,’ she answered, smiling freely at him for the first time that evening.
When they had left, Julia wondered whether to say anything or not, but David seemed to have no such inhibitions.
‘Phew!’ he said. ‘What had I done to make her so cross?’
Relieved to have the matter out in the open, Julia took a sip of wine to ease her throat and tried to explain her wayward, difficult, fascinating, beloved sister-in-law to him.
‘She is probably afraid that if Anthony likes you too much she will be excluded,’ she said slowly through the pain. It seemed far more important that David should understand and not be hurt than that she save her throat. ‘I still find some of the things she does difficult to understand even after all these years, but I have grasped her conviction that people have only a finite quantity of affection to give and her terror that if Anthony lets anyone new have any she will have that much less for herself. She has always been rather possessive of him, except oddly enough as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Presumably because she’s possessive of you, too,’ said David quickly.
Julia looked at him doubtfully. For so intelligent and perceptive a man, that was an oddly silly thing to say.
‘I? Oh, no, David. You’re wrong there,’ she said.
David got up from his chair and prowled around the room. Julia thought that she had never before met anyone who exuded such restless strength and yet could be so gentle in his dealings with other people. Once again she wondered what it was that he had done in the war to make Anthony so angry.
The glass in the long windows rattled suddenly as a gust of wind battered them, and all the six candles on the round table guttered in the draught.
At last David came back and stood looking down at her. He seemed to loom over her and she instinctively moved back in her chair with a jerk.
‘I am sorry, Julia,’ he said, withdrawing. He found a chair and pulled it beside the sofa. ‘I always forget how overpowering my size can be,’ he added as he sat down.
‘Please don’t misjudge Comfort,’ she said seriously. ‘Anthony and I both love her, and if you and she fight…’
‘I won’t fight her – why should I? But I’m afraid she may fight me. I’ll try and stay out of your way while she’s here.’
Julia put the desolation that suddenly thrust itself into her mind down to her cold and said that she thought she ought to go bed. David stood up at once.
‘I shouldn’t have kept you talking. I am so sorry,’ he said, holding out a hand to help her up. Julia took it and tried not to cling.
‘I’ll go and ask Annunziata to fill you a hot bottle,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you ought to get into a freezing bed in your state. I’ll get her to bring it up to you.’
‘Thank you, David,’ said Julia. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night.’
She left him to pull herself up the bannisters to bed, thinking back to the inordinately exciting first summer when Comfort and Anthony had rented their house outside Oxford and she had fallen in love. He had often been on duty at the hospital, and then Comfort and Julia would lie on long cushioned chairs on the terrace, breathing in the lemon scent of the immense magnolia that sprawled up the old red brick of the house and talking about him and about what life might be like when they all left Oxford. Julia had felt like a character in a fairy tale, whisked out of humdrum existence and given a glimpse of perfection.
‘Where did it all go?’ she asked herself.
Chapter Seventeen
Julia felt worse and worse all the next day, but managed to hide it from the others. David left the salon straight after dinner on the excuse that he had letters to write and, half an hour later, Julia went up to bed early, leaving Comfort and Anthony alone.
After a poor night’s sleep, punctured by weird dreams from which she emerged coughing and aching in every joint, Julia woke on Monday morning to a suspicion that she might be really ill. She found Anthony eating breakfast alone. He took one look at her and put his hand to her forehead again.
‘Back to bed, Julia,’ he said in a kinder voice than she was used to in Venice. ‘You’re a clot to have got up. You’re ill. Come on. We’ll bring your breakfast up.’
‘I’m not sure that I want any,’ she said and inside her skull her hoarse voice grated against the pain. Anthony put an arm gently around her shoulders and urged her upstairs back to bed as though she were one of his charges from the orphanage.
On the stairs they passed Comfort, dressed in filthy old trousers and a sweater from which floated festoons of draggled wool. In spite of the squalour of her clothes she looked almost as superb as she had done in her ravishing French dress.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, peering into Julia’s half-closed eyes.
Before Julia could even shake her head, Anthony had answered for her
‘No. I’m putting her back to bed. Rout out Annunziata, would you, Comfort, and get her to bring up a tray of breakfast. No,’ he added turning back to his wife, ‘you must have something. Just an egg if we’ve got one and some coffee – the caffeine will at least cheer you up.’
Whether it was the caffeine or Anthony’s taking so much trouble over her, or perhaps merely the result of laying her aching, pounding head back on the pillow, Julia felt slightly less uncomfortable in bed and she told Anthony so when he came back to take the tray away.
‘Now, will you feel safe enough with Annunziata? I have to get to work and so must David. Comfort can sit with you, if –’
‘Oh no,’ interrupted Julia, her voice still intolerably painful. ‘She’s on holiday. I’ll sleep. But tell David …’
‘Don’t talk, darling. It’ll only hurt your throat worse. I’ve told him and he will explain your absence in court. I’ll squeeze a minute or two to come back at lunchtime, and I’ll bring some things for your throat then. Meanwhile, have you got plenty of aspirins?’
