by Annie Murray
What am I missing? Have you had sports day? Any gossip? WRITE TO ME, OR ELSE – OK??
Got to go – Grandpa and I are going to fetch water. Caravanning is hard work!
Lots and lots of love from your best friend forever,
Janey xxxxxxxxxxxx
III.
Lying on my stomach on the feather bed, I peered out between Grandpa’s and Brenda’s heads as the road unfolded in front of us.
A change had come over the scenery. The flat cornfields dwindled and in their place appeared wooded mountains, cold rushing streams and green valleys. The road wound up hills and down through valleys, some sunny, others in deep mauve shade. Sometimes, looking down, you could see the grey shadows of clouds drifting over the green slopes far below.
‘Soon be in Switzerland,’ Grandpa said.
‘Would you like a humbug?’ Brenda held out a crackly bag.
‘Thanks,’ I said, or thought I did. I said it again, louder, just in case. I was so taken up with the beauty outside I felt I was in a dream. The houses perched on the slopes outside were wooden like my cuckoo clock at home and looked as if birds ought to pop out of them too. They were something I was going to tell Charlotte about. But thinking about her made me feel insecure and miserable. Had she written to me yet? Would she ever? Did she ever think about me? Home felt so far away. And although Grandpa and Brenda were very kind to me I did wish I had someone else to hang out with.
‘In the winter these roads would be banked up with snow,’ Grandpa said. ‘D’you remember – they brought you here once, when you were three or four – Peter and Elizabeth?’
I liked the way Grandpa talked about Dad instead of avoiding his name the way Brenda did.
Did I remember? Something had been nudging at my mind, and I tried to grasp at images from my memory. Woods with black, snow trimmed trees, everything covered by the thick blanket of white, Daddy in a bright orange waterproof… Yes, the climbing expedition to Chamonix. Mum had stayed back with me that time, instead of climbing herself. Didn’t we walk through a village full of snow when it was almost dark, the cold sharp in our nostrils and lights twinkling in the houses? A strange feeling swelled inside me that I couldn’t explain.
We stopped for lunch by the roadside and I wandered out to explore while Brenda cut slices of bread and cheese. Between the road and the sloping meadow beyond, ran a stream, with a light bubbling sound, almost hidden by the lush grass growing on its banks. There was a log laid across for a bridge, and once I’d crossed it, I found myself knee-deep in grass and flowers; spiky purple-tops, poppies, cowslips and frothy white blooms. Further up, in a dark band, were evergreen woods. Higher still, dwarfing them from above, soared a high peak topped with snow like a skull-cap.
I stared up at the peak, the grasses tickling my knees below my shorts. It made me feel dizzy looking up at it, but I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away. I squinted to see more clearly. Near the top I spotted something which tugged at the very core of me. Something dark was poking out of the white cap, the way a pine needle might stick out of a snowman’s chest. It looked like a tiny figure, a manikin at the side of the peak, with his arm raised, beckoning me. And it was as if the mountain was holding her arms out too, drawing me to her.
‘Come,’ she seemed to whisper. ‘Come up – climb. It’s at the very top, in the mist and clouds where you belong. Everything will feel right from up here; you can see the world, you can see Daddy. Just climb…..’
I started running through the springy grass, struggling upwards, pushing hard with my legs, tripping, panting, my chest pumping… Daddy…. On and on I ran and ran. Just below the trees I stumbled on to a muddy path which twisted up into the wood. My legs were heavy as iron, each step seeming to take forever as I ran until I was deep in among the among the trees…. And in another world.
I stopped, my lungs sobbing for breath.
Recovering, I gazed upward, seeing the sunlight tinted green through pine fronds in this secret glade. The grasses beneath were so delicate that they seemed to merge together, soft and caressing with ferns and flowers among them. From here I couldn’t see the peak or the snow and the stick-man waving from the ice cap. It was all far away, beyond me.
I sank to my knees in the grass and pressed my face down to the earth, smelling it, the stalks of grass round my cheeks. I shook all over as if I was being wrung out, but I still didn’t cry.
‘Daddy…. Oh Daddy, come back…. Give him back…Ple-e-ase.’
Only when I was quieter, just lying there with a sick feeling in my stomach, I became aware of the ripple of the wind through the treetops and grass. Raising my head, I stared up through the deep green branches. Though I was alone in this quiet place, I didn’t feel it. The breeze caressed my cheeks and I could smell the pines and the soil as if they were trying to comfort me and make me feel strong inside.
‘When you’re in the mountains,’ Daddy said to me once. ‘You have to be very, very strong. But it’s not how people think. You have to be strong the way a butterfly is strong. It doesn’t involve muscles. A butterfly is fragile, lighter than paper but it has the strength to fly. It’s about life - the force of your life and spirit.’
At first I thought the new sound was the wind too, then it grew more distinct.
‘Aaa – e-e-e-ee… Ja-a-a-ney!’
Tearing myself up from the ground I followed Brenda’s voice to the edge of the wood from where I saw her in the distance at the edge of the alpine meadow. She must have crossed the log bridge and was standing with her arms folded, wearing her flowery apron. Even from this distance she looked anxious. She caught sight of me and waved and I waved back and somehow felt pleased to see her, even though I never knew what to say to her.
‘Lu-u-unch!’ she called, and climbed back over the stream, holding her arms out to balance her. Grandpa appeared from behind the caravan.
I strode back down through the grass and flowers and we sat down for lunch inside.
‘So you’ve been exploring?’ Brenda asked brightly.
I nodded. ‘It was really pretty up there.’ I knew I wouldn’t say anything more.
‘D’you know,’ Grandpa announced, spreading his bread with pale Swiss butter. ‘When I was out there just now there was quite a bit of traffic going by and I’m sure I saw that Dreadful Van again.’
‘You mean…’ I began eagerly, about to say ‘the Ship of Dreams.’ But they wouldn’t get that – even Grandpa wouldn’t although he likes stories and adventures. ‘The one on the ferry?’
‘Yep – I’m pretty sure it was them – that Dreadful Man from Manchester.’
And I felt a smile spread across my face.
Bella Italia
I.
LOG BOOK
We’ve stopped at the funniest of places. We’re in Italy now. I’m sitting in the corner of a field and it’s chilly. Grandpa got me to put down the legs of the caravan and now they’re having cups of tea so I’ve been for a look round.
We reached the border up in the mountains after lunch. The rocks on the road near the checkpoint were wrapped up in wire netting to stop them rolling down on us. There were all these guards in very smart uniforms and a Swiss flag on one side and an Italian flag on the other. They looked at our passports and nodded very solemnly at us. I think they had guns.
One we’d driven off Grandpa cheered and said, ‘Bella Italia! Now this is more like it!’ Ever since we’ve been in Italy he’s been very chirpy.
We came down the mountains with our ears popping and stopped at ‘cup of tea time’ as Brenda calls it – in this field. It had the little camping sign pointing to it, but Grandpa says it looks like a gold-panning town after the gold has run out. There are two other caravans and no one in them. Apart from that there are the toilets and for some reason, a tiny little chapel. The door isn’t locked and when I looked inside it all seemed to be wrecked, with plaster and dust all over the floor. There was still a little wooden stand to kneel on and a statue of Mary and a cross, but ever
ything was all mucky.
I wasn’t sure what to do but I prayed to the church god, just in case there is one, to give daddy butterfly strength so he can fly up above the ice crystals and rocks, the jet streams and oceans and all the way home.
--------
(I’ve decided if I use the back of this book too I can write some things just for me, that I don’t have to show to Mum.)
THINGS I REMEMBER ABOUT DAD
He likes boiled carrots and Guinness (not together) and steak and kidney pie
He likes dogs – his favourite dog is Uncle Vin’s black Labrador, Musket
He likes watching Tom and Jerry and Dad’s Army and On the Buses and laughing
He cheers when Sheffield Wednesday win the football and says things’ll get better for them one day
He gets cross when you make him jump or muddle up his climbing gear
He hates Brussels sprouts and beetroot and people who drop litter and loud people (like Mr Ainsley) He doesn’t like teachers much
When he laughs his shoulders go up and down and his beard smiles too
He loves mountains and cuddles and Crunchies
And Mum
And me :-(
(I won’t know if Charlotte’s written to me ‘til we get to Venice. I wish we were there now. Still haven’t seen Fizz all the way through France even though Grandpa thought he did.)
II.
Grandpa had quite a lot of wine at suppertime (another ‘Damned Good Drink’), and when he poured his third glass, Brenda said,
‘I think you’ve had enough dear, haven’t you?’
The tip of his nose had gone a tell-tale pink.
We had a stew for supper. There were mosquitoes buzzing about in the caravan, whining like tiny aeroplanes. Afterwards Brenda asked if we were going to play cards but Grandpa looked at me.
‘I think it’s time we went off for one of Our Adventures, don’t you?’ And he winked.
Grandpa always seemed to want adventures when he’d had some wine.
‘You watch what you get up to,’ Brenda said as we went out.
When we were walking across the field with our torch, something really spooky happened. On the left was the toilet block – three toilets for men and women to share. They were the usual stand-up sort and we’d used them once or twice. But as we walked past we heard them flushing, whoosh, sploosh one after another. And there was nobody else there!
‘Grandpa…’ I stopped and listened. Whoosh!… And then a bit later Whoosh!
‘Gracious me,’ Grandpa chuckled, which melted the scary icicles on my spine a bit, until he added, ‘It’s the ghost of Jerry Bundler!’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Oh – a Damn Good Yarn from my boyhood. Ghosts and so on.’
This didn’t help much. Who was flushing those toilets??!
Grandpa took my hand which made me feel better. We went out along the road towards a little town, walking uphill. There were railings on the right and we were looking down on houses with their lights twinkling. There were a few street lights, rather feeble and far apart. Every so often a dog would start barking. Further along, we found ourselves walking beside a wall too high to see over and soon, in the light of one of the lamps, we saw tall iron gates.
‘Ah, I know what this is,’ Grandpa said. ‘This is the local cemetery. Very interesting, these places are.’
He let go of my hand and tried the handle of the gate but there was a chain and a big padlock.
Then he gave me a naughty look.
‘Shall we go in anyway?’
‘But it’s locked. We’re not really supposed to, are we?’
‘Ah well,’ Grandpa said breezily, ‘You can’t go through life worrying about that sort of thing. Come along now – you put your foot up here, that’s a girl, catch a hold and I’ll give you a leg up.’
‘Are you sure about this, Grandpa?’ I said, as he gave me a shove from behind.
‘Yes, yes…’ Grandpa was in no mood to be thwarted. ‘Come along.’
He helped hoist me up so I was standing with my foot half way up the gate and I could climb up the rest. It wasn’t that difficult as there were bars to put your feet on, only it was swinging about and making clanking noises that sounded terribly loud. I sat at the top swaying, between two curly bits of iron, with one leg each side.
Grandpa came up next to me, swung his leg over and disappeared down the other side. When he landed I heard him say, ‘Ooooof!’ and ‘Darnit! Dropped the torch!’
I was still lurching about on the gate and I got the giggles. I’m breaking into a cemetery with my grandfather, I thought, and now he’s probably broken his leg and we’ll never get out and I could feel bubbles of laughter in me like a bottle of lemonade at Grandpa stumbling about and cursing down there. I couldn’t actually see him because it was so dark.
I just managed to climb down, still bursting inside. Grandpa, a shadow beside me, reached for my hand. He seemed to be swaying about a bit too.
‘Right!’ he said. ‘Well at least I’ve found my hat.’ Then he couldn’t seem to think why we’d climbed over the gate. ‘Well, whatever are we doing here!’ he said, chortling helplessly, and I burst into more giggles as well and soon we were bent over, completely out of breath we were laughing so much. Just as we began to pull ourselves together, Grandpa stumbled over something on the ground and thumped over backwards like a sack of potatoes and we started off all over again.
‘Come along now,’ he said at last. ‘We must behave like Responsible Personages. ‘Let’s go and have a look. Take my arm, Janey dear. The torch is a goner so we’ll have to do without. At least there’s a little shred of moon.’
Our eyes were getting used to the dark and we could see a path nearby. Grandpa showed me that as well as the big stone plinths and tombs there was another way of being buried in Italy.
‘See here,’ he pointed.
On our left was a high wall, but in the gloom you could just make out that it was divided up into squares like a giant filing cabinet.
‘The ground’s so rocky in so many places here that they can’t just bury everyone,’ Grandpa said. ‘So they put them in these, above the ground, and close them up and they have their names on them, see?’
There was a little picture of the person on most of them and some had little nosegays of flowers fixed to them as well.
‘Well here they all are. Peaceful, isn’t it?’ Grandpa said.
The funny thing was, it could have felt very scary there. If I’d been on my own I would have seen ghosts and skeletons jumping out from behind every grave with black holes for eyes. But I was there with Grandpa and the way he talked about the dead people, it was just as if they were friends, people just like us who’d sort of lain down for a snooze.
We could smell the night now, the earth and the herby plants.
‘We’d better go back, my little dear,’ Grandpa said. ‘Brenda will be worrying.’
I climbed back over the clanky gate and managed to jump down into the street, then stood looking up at Grandpa as he swung one leg over.
‘Here we come!’ he announced. And then, ‘Oh, darn it! Got my trouser leg caught on something down there – darn it!
He was sprawled along the top of the gate, leaning down, muttering and cursing. I didn’t notice the footsteps coming along the road until the man was quite close to us and Grandpa was still calling out,
‘I’m going to have to go back over or I’ll lose my trousers, and that won’t do!’
The man seemed to have magicked himself right next to me. He was small and round and wearing a wide black hat and black clothes. He stopped and looked at me, then up at the top of the gate with big, solemn eyes.
‘Grandpa!’ I called, panic-stricken.
‘What is it?’ He peered over at us, both looking up at him. Even in this most undignified state, Grandpa managed to raise his hat.
‘Buona sera, Padre,’ he said. Good evening, he was saying.
The little round man to
uched the brim of his hat, most politely. ‘Buona sera, signore, signorina,’ he said, giving each of us a nod. Then he disappeared along the street. I’m sure he was smiling.
With a grunt and a ripping sound, Grandpa managed to get his trousers freed and his feet back on the ground.
‘That’s better!’ he said cheerfully. ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’
‘No – who?’
‘The local priest. Fine chap – didn’t bat an eyelid, did he?’ he took my arm. ‘Come along.’
When we walked back into the caravan field, the toilets were still going Whoosh! All by themselves.
III.
LOG BOOK
Where’s Grandpa gone this time? He’s gone off again and left us in this boring dusty campsite outside Vicenza where there’s nothing to do. Ever since we’ve been in Italy he’s been ‘sloping off’ – that’s what Brenda calls it. And he never takes me with him and I’m FED UP with it! I am affronted.
Oops. I stopped writing. I’d already broken my rules about not putting moods and rants into the front of my Log Book. But I was fed up. I was sitting on the step of the caravan writing and I had a nasty feeling Brenda (who was also none too pleased) was brewing up some sewing. So I was trying to look busy. But why was Grandpa being so mean?
Last time he took off it was outside Milan. After several hours he came back, triumphant.
‘Look at these beauties!’ Tucked under his arm was a parcel of soft felt, and out of it he unrolled two figures and stood them on the table next to the butter. They were both men, golden in colour, with wreaths of vine leaves round their heads. Otherwise they were stark staring naked.