Ashford
Melanie Rose Huff
Copyright 2011 by Melanie Rose Huff
All rights reserved.
Cover photo copyright 2009 by Melanie Rose Huff, Llandygwydd, Wales, UK
This book is available in print from most online retailers.
All rights reserved.
The characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
For Mr. James Flower
In recognition of his unceasing encouragement and excellent editorial assistance.
With my love.
Chapter 1
My grandmother always said there were only two types of people, those who had class and those who did not. According to her rule, the man sitting opposite me in the train was obviously a person of the latter type, for he sprawled across his share of the seat in a way which would have horrified my grandmother, and his hair and clothes had a rumpled, unkempt look, as if he had dressed himself that morning in a great hurry without the aid of a mirror.
However, whatever my grandmother's opinion might have been, I found myself liking the man seated across from me. He was reading an Italian paper, and his long, straight nose was only inches away from the newsprint as he studied it. His light brown hair stood mostly on end, and it was not difficult to see why, for whenever he came to something in the paper that seemed to puzzle him he ran his fingers into his hair and pulled upwards, at the same time twisting his face into an expression of distress.
My Italian was not very good, limited to the short phrases which travellers learn in the last weeks before their departure, and the page of the paper facing me revealed nothing intelligible except one advertisement in the bottom right-hand corner which bore an illustration of a waiter with a steaming tray and the words "Pasta! Pasta! Pasta!" in bold capitals underneath. I considered that perhaps some great tragedy had occurred, for the strange man seemed to tug at his hair more often as time went on. I supposed that I shouldn't be studying him so carefully. It was rude, no doubt, to examine people on trains.
I glanced to my left. My chaperones, the Beauforts, were asleep. Mr. Beaufort's mouth had fallen open and Mrs. Beaufort was snoring in an allergic sort of way, which reminded me of the snuffling sounds my grandmother’s pug, Sigurd, made.
My grandmother had calmly stated when she said good-bye to me that the Beauforts had no class, but that they were kind and would at least take good care of me, for the sake of my dead parents if for no other reason. In their case I was inclined to agree with her. The Beauforts were kind, well-meaning, and completely tactless. They loved to stand in line for hours to see little stone monuments with names and dates engraved on them, and then to write them down in little notebooks with gold pens with “I have visited the Colosseum” engraved on them. They thought me uninterested, because when we visited the Pantheon or the Colosseum I had not questioned the guide about the cost of upkeep or the exact height of the arches, but had been silent. They could not know that I was standing in speechless awe, simply breathing in the air of those ancient places, feeling the pride of the builder in his creation, hearing the heavy breathing of the workers as they moved each stone into place, seeing it all as it must have been in its glory.
There was no one else in our part of the train. Outside it was completely dark, but I could not sleep like my companions. I waited, watching the window eagerly, for the dawn to come and show me what new landscape we were passing through.
Our travels had begun in Rome, and we had spent two weeks there before taking the train north to Florence, where we expected to arrive by midmorning. After that we were to go on to Venice, and from there we would go west across the border into France and stop in Nice for a week or so. From there I was not sure of our course. I only knew that the Beauforts intended to continue going north as the summer went on, eventually crossing the English channel by boat and coming to Britain, where we would spend some time before catching another boat to transport us back to America and my Grandmother’s tall, lonely house on the coast of Maine.
I was jerked out of my thoughts by a rustle of papers and the feel of something falling onto my foot. The man opposite, it seemed, had not been so wide awake as he had appeared, and had fallen asleep for a moment over his paper. It had fallen from his hands, along with a little book, which had bounced onto my weathered brown walking shoe. I picked it up, glancing at the title as I did so, and handed it back to him. He was awake again, gazing at the papers strewn over the seat and floor, and wondering, no doubt, how they had got there.
"Grazi, Signorina," he said, taking the book and stuffing it into his jacket pocket as if he were ashamed of it.
"Don't mention it," I answered in English, for his thanks, said as no Italian ever said it, as well as the title of the book, made me both bold and curious.
We had both whispered so as not to wake the Beauforts, and now he leaned closer, pulling the book out of his pocket again and looking relieved, and said in English, "I was afraid that silly thing would give me away. I've been trying to puzzle out this paper, but I'm afraid I've not had much luck with it." He glanced ruefully from the paper to the book, a small copy of an English-Italian dictionary.
I was usually timid with strangers, but the situation was unique, and it surprised me into sympathy.
"I know what you mean," I said. "I hardly know any Italian, and I don't like appearing ignorant. I wish I were more fluent. I love the sounds, just hearing it spoken in the street, but I can’t make out one word in ten."
His only answer was to sit up straighter and clear away some of the paper which littered the seat beside him. He then inclined his head towards the empty space in an inviting sort of way, smiling cheerfully as he spread the paper out again on his lap.
I glanced a little uncertainly at the Beauforts, not quite sure what they would think, then shrugged my shoulders and took the seat which had been offered to me. After all, I thought as I considered the man beside me, we were in a public train, and he was a good deal older than I -- maybe thirty or so to my seventeen. Also, the Beauforts themselves were constantly pressing me to take part in what they called "socialising with the locals", a game which I had no taste for, having noticed that in the Beaufort vocabulary "socialising" was only a code word for "interrogating" while "locals" appeared to be a euphemism for "savage natives". This was different. The Beauforts were asleep, and I could not be embarrassed into silence by their remarks.
The last hours of darkness passed by swiftly as together my new friend and I, with the aid of his dictionary, tried to decipher the stories in the paper. The front page was dedicated to something to do with the German Nazi party -- a group of people about whom I knew very little then. To me Adolf Hitler was nothing but a small man with a loud voice and an unfortunate taste in facial hair. My grandmother pursed her wrinkled lips and frowned when his name was mentioned, but she had not been worried enough to put off our trip or change our travelling plans. Before the year's end that small man and his tasteless moustache would turn the world upside down, but for now he and his followers were just interesting enough to fill up a page in an Italian newspaper.
Even fascinating foreign papers grow a little tiresome eventually, especially when nearly every word must be carefully searched for in a pocket dictionary. After a while I could understand very well why my new friend had fallen asleep in the midst of his labour. Soon enough our talk turned away from the contents of the newspaper and moved to more general topics. I had never been very good at the conventional forms of small-talk, but the situation itself was hardly conventional, and with the Beauforts' curious eyes conveniently hidden under their lids, I talked freely to the stranger, asking and answering questions with an interest I had never felt so free to indulge before.
> His name, he said, was Perry Bertram, and he was from a place called Nettlebridge in the west of England, somewhere between Bath and Wells. He had travelled to Rome for a few weeks of "idle enjoyment", which seemed to include walking eight miles or so a day and eating a great deal to balance out the exercise, and was now on his way home. When I told him that we had plans to stay in England for several weeks at the end of our journey he was very interested, and asked all sorts of questions about the places we intended to visit and how long we planned to stay. I could not answer most of his questions, for in those matters I was at the mercy of the Beauforts, but I told him that to the best of my knowledge we intended to travel extensively.
"Good," he said. "I'm glad to hear it. So many people make the mistake of thinking London is far enough. London is a wonderful city, of course, but it isn't all there is, by any means. Now, down in our part of the country--"
"Anna?"
It was Mrs. Beaufort's voice. I looked up, feeling the little panicky jump in my stomach which I felt nearly every time I heard her say my name, and the cowardice which was always the worst part of my nature asserted itself. I was silent, looking down at the pattern of my skirt, little grey curlicues against a green background, as if it were the most important thing in the world.
Perry Bertram saved me.
"Your charge and I were just passing the time," he said smoothly. "Long train rides can get so tedious. I’m sure you would agree."
Yes, I liked him, whatever Grandmother would say. He reminded me of my favourite uncle, my Uncle Nicholas. Already Mrs. Beaufort was won over, and was plying him with questions. Then Mr. Beaufort woke up and joined the conversation, pointing out how very important it was to discover, "where the locals ate" and eat there yourself, and from his tone and manner there rose in my head a picture of Mr. Beaufort on an African Safari, following a herd of elephants to their watering hole armed with a notebook and a little gold pen.
All the time I continued to shrink further back into my corner, feeling that my proximity to the Beauforts tainted me with a touch of their vulgarity, yet hating myself for the feeling. The sun rose beyond the window, bathing the beautiful Italian landscape in golden light, and I turned my eyes to watch it in relief as we passed through groves of twisted olive trees. Everything was fresh and lovely, green and gold and shining in the sun, and it made me long to escape from the confines of the train and run unhindered through the fields and over the distant hills. Who cared for a city, even Florence, when there were places like this?
But it was Florence, and not a far green hill, for which we were heading, and when we reached it I was not sorry, for it was beautiful too, though in quite a different way from the trees and fields we had left behind.
The train pulled in at the station and the passengers began crowding out onto the platform. We gathered our things and joined the mob. As we passed out of the station I heard a familiar rustling noise, and, looking around, saw my friend from the train, bending again to collect his scattered papers. He glanced up, caught my eye, and smiled, but Mrs. Beaufort was pulling me somewhere and I could only follow. Thus, so I thought, ended my brief acquaintance with Perry Bertram.
Chapter 2
It was wonderful to wake up in my own room of our Florence hotel, refreshed from a good night's sleep and eager for the day ahead. I climbed out of bed and went to the window, flinging open the shutters and leaning out at a dangerous angle, careless of the five-story drop below, and felt the cool morning breeze brush against my face. It was still early, and the window only looked out onto a narrow back street, but a few people passed beneath even at that hour, and one, a tall woman in blue, looked up at the window. For a moment our eyes met, and she smiled. I smiled back, overwhelmed by that feeling of kinship with the whole world which comes the first time you connect with something or someone beyond yourself or your immediate circle. Language, birth, nationality -- what were they but flimsy barriers people put up to hide themselves from the rest of the world? People were just people, after all, no matter where you found them. We were all the same, just trying to sort out the everyday conundrums which twisted our lives into question marks. The least we could do was acknowledge it.
With these thoughts I shut the window again and dressed myself, full of joyous expectations for the days ahead. I even hummed to myself as I brushed my hair, half dancing my way between the bed and the dresser. It was a glorious day. The sun was shining. I was in Florence. What more could anyone wish for?
Mrs. Beaufort's knock at the door brought me back to earth, or at least a little closer to it, and I realised that there were still one or two small things I could find to wish for. But even the presence of the Beauforts could not do much to dampen my spirits, and I remained in a cheerful temper, though somewhat subdued, as I followed them downstairs to breakfast.
The dining room of our hotel was a comfortable place, beautiful in the same way all places which provide nourishment are beautiful, no matter how different their outward appearance. The tables were covered in brilliant white tablecloths, and fresh flowers were everywhere. There were many small tables for groups of two or four, set around the outside edges of the large room, for those choosing to keep to themselves; and two long tables in the centre for those bold individuals who chose to brave the society of their fellow tourists.
The Beauforts, as bold individuals, seated themselves at one of the long tables, and I followed, feeling a little bolder than usual myself. I was still not keen on playing "socialise with the locals" but I was certainly prepared to watch and listen.
My eyes wandered over the room, searching for interesting faces. There was a group of elderly men at one end of our table, arguing in Italian and gesticulating wildly (and rather dangerously) with hands still gripping knives and forks. At the other end was a group of French women. The higher notes of their chattering voices, mixed with the deeper tones of the men, turned the usually musical sounds of the two languages into one inharmonious cacophony, over which it was impossible to hear anything else. Most of the remaining company did not even attempt to compete with the noise, and ate in silence, but a few, including the Beauforts, started up a telegraph of yells and hand gestures across the room, passing volleys of information on what to see, how much to tip the drivers, and where or where not to eat. One, a grey-haired man of about seventy who spoke only a little English, kept yelling from the other side of the room, something about a tower, but since only one word in ten was intelligible nobody knew which tower he was referring to. Finally, as they had finished their breakfasts, his wife took him by the arm and led him away upstairs, while the Beauforts, exhausted by their energetic attempts to understand him, settled down to imbibe espresso and pastry in great quantities and discuss between themselves whether to visit Santa Croce or the monastery of San Marco after breakfast.
I too, having finished my survey of the room, turned my concentration to my food and thoughts of the day ahead. Through the dining room windows I caught glimpses of a glorious expanse of sky, from which beams of sunlight shone down on the roofs and spires of the city, turning it into a shining thing of blue and gold. Beyond I could see a sort of green haze, which spoke to me of the hills among which the train had brought us the day before. I could see no reason to wander the closed-in aisles of any building, even if it were the greatest of churches, when outside the sun shone so brightly and Something beckoned from those far away hills, pulling at me with such intensity that I longed to rise from the table that moment and answer its call. I actually reached down to grip the seat of my chair, as if my own weak hands could hold me down against the pull of that greater Something.
"Anna."
It was Mr. Beaufort. He had turned from his guidebook to look at me over his spectacles.
"Mrs. Beaufort and I are having some trouble deciding how to start off our time here in Florence. What do you think? Is there anything here that you particularly want to see?"
There it was. My moment had come. Mr. Beaufort had offered it to me -
- my chance to choose what we should do. But the opportunity came so suddenly that I was not prepared for it. I paused and wet my lips with my tongue before I spoke. My hands were trembling. I grasped the chair harder. It was strangely difficult to put into words what it was that I longed to see.
"I don't know," I began, stumbling over my words, although I had known exactly what I wanted a few minutes before. "I would really like to, well, just sort of take in the city...I mean, it's a beautiful day...and maybe some of the countryside." My voice gained a little strength as I went on, but not enough. "Perhaps we could just wander, and enjoy the sunshine. It's a beautiful day."
Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort looked at me, nodding in a knowing sort of way which meant absolutely nothing. However, they had heard something, even if it was not exactly what I had intended to convey.
"It is an idea, my dear," said Mr. Beaufort, turning to his wife. "We should take full advantage of the sunshine. According to the guidebook there is a charming drive that takes you up around Fiesole. The guides are locals, you know. They take out groups of twenty or so at a time, but they don't leave until after lunch."
Mr. and Mrs. Beaufort then began to discuss how we should occupy ourselves for the morning.
"I believe the best thing would be to go to the Pitti Palace and the Boboli gardens," said Mrs. Beaufort, looking up from the guidebook. "We would have time if we set out at once, and the gardens will be out of doors, which should appeal to Anna."
Mr. Beaufort looked at his watch. "Ah!" he said. "We had better get going then. I suppose you'll need a few things from your room, Anna? Very well. We shall meet you in front of the hotel in exactly five minutes."
I ought to have predicted this, I thought as I hurried to my room. In their kindness the Beauforts had sought to give me what they thought I wanted, and in their blindness they had not been able to see what that was. I was really to blame for this, for my words had been ridiculously inadequate. The result was that we were to rush off to the Pitti Palace and the Boboli gardens, collect information off plaques and view important monuments, stand where the signs told us to stand to see the best views, and be in such a hurry that we lost half the beauty of each place in rushing to the next one. Then we were to have a drive "up around Fiesole", a place I had longed to see, but not in the company of twenty other people with, again, a guide to show us where to stand and what to look at and tell us important dates from the history of Florence. Again, I was only getting half of what I wanted, but half would have to do. With the Beauforts I could never have my desire. It was not something they could understand, and I could not make them.
Ashford Page 1