Tell Me No Truths

by Gill Vickery

  Praise for Tell Me No Truths

  ‘Powerful and impressive. An outstanding piece of writing.’

  Tim Bowler, author of River Boy and winner of fifteen awards, including the Carnegie Medal

  ‘Gill Vickery has the enviable knack of introducing us right at the start to characters who will interest and intrigue us. This novel moves between the present and the war-time past in Italy, bringing both periods to life most enjoyably.’

  Adèle Geras, Author of Troy, Ithaka and Dido

  ‘Intrigues and captivates in equal measure. A winner!’

  Celia Rees, award-winning author of Witch Child, Sorceress, Pirates and Sovay

  ‘A compelling YA novel for our times. The past explodes upon three teenagers amid the glories of Florence and the Tuscan countryside. These vividly-drawn young characters uncover the horrors of fascism and war through their personal quests to untangle mysteries and hidden histories. A shocking yet sensitive story to make young readers think.’

  Julie Bertagna, author of the Exodus trilogy

  Praise for The Ivy Crown

  The Ivy Crown ‘. . . will raise shivers in its readers as well as move them to tears.’

  Adèle Geras, TES

  ‘A brilliant debut novel from Gill Vickery in which she skilfully interweaves family tensions of the present with the evil events of the past. An atmospheric, engrossing read.’

  Valerie Bierman, Carousel

  ‘Megan is utterly believable in her guilt, remorse and loss; her half-resentful sense of responsibility for her brother; the inner conflict between the child who clamours for attention and the burgeoning adult who knows she must take second place. The Ivy Crown is a deeply perceptive commentary on the different ways people cope with loss.’

  Jan Mark

  Also by Gill Vickery

  The Ivy Crown

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by

  The Greystones Press Ltd

  Greystones

  37 Lawton Avenue

  Carterton

  Oxfordshire OX18 3JY

  Copyright © Gill Vickery 2018

  ‘Primavera’ by Robin Robertson. Published by

  the Guardian, 2004. Copyright © Robin Robertson.

  Reproduced by permission of the author c/o

  Rogers, Coleridge & White Ltd.,

  20 Powis Mews, London W11 1JN

  The moral right of Gill Vickery to be

  identified as the author of this work has been

  asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication

  may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any

  information storage and retrieval system,

  without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-911122-24-1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  businesses, organizations, places and events are

  either the product of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously.

  Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Jane Weller, friend and much-loved

  godmother, and in memory of Sergeant

  Malcolm Griffin who cherished the flag of

  Villagrappa school for sixty years.

  The brimstone is back

  in the woken hills of Tuscany,

  passing the word

  from speedwell to violet

  wood anemone to celandine.

  From ‘Primavera’ by Robin Robertson

  Disegnia Antonio, disegnia e non perder tempo.

  Draw, Antonio, draw and don’t waste time.

  Michelangelo: written on a drawing by his pupil, Antonio Mini, c.1524.

  I can recall nothing after the boy burst into the room and shot me in the head. To be more accurate, I have pieced together my own remembered fragments of the massacre while friends who were also there have filled in the gaps. Only one memory still eludes me: what happened immediately after the Black Brigade boy turned his shotgun on me? I know that something was said, something vital, but what it was I can’t remember.

  The day had started well. It was Easter Sunday, 9th April 1944, deep in the hills of Northern Italy. The farmer’s wife, her daughter Tecla, and daughter-in-law Elena, were preparing a feast. Today it would seem an ordinary meal but in that year Italy was close to starving and the prospect of real food was at the forefront of all our minds. There was to be the usual chestnut polenta that had sustained both the farmer’s family and the motley collection of partisans, escaped prisoners of war, and myself, a British agent of the Special Operations Executive, through a bitterly hard winter. In addition to this staple, there were to be eggs, a chicken and vegetables, and wine, all of which had mysteriously found their way to the farmhouse. There was even a bar of American chocolate. No one asked where any of the food had come from. Anticipation of full bellies had made us less alert than we should have been; besides, who would attack on such a holy day?

  When dinner was ready I went to collect Jerzy and Henryk, two Polish POWs, who were sharing a rare cigarette in the courtyard, their stolen German weapons leaning against the well. At that moment a young girl, a partisan courier called Ilaria, burst through the trees shouting, ‘They’re coming – the Black Brigade! They’re coming!’

  Jerzy and Henryk immediately took up a defensive position, crouched behind the well with their rifles, while I ran up the steps to the farmhouse door and gave the alarm. The partisans leaped to their feet sending chairs and benches crashing to the floor, grabbed their weapons from a stack by the door and scattered around the farmyard. The farmer hurried his wife, daughter and granddaughter away. Before we could do anything else, the Black Brigade screamed up the track in their vehicles and into the courtyard.

  I’d left my weapons in the stable where I slept. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I was about to run for them when Gaetano, the farmer’s son, called to me from the kitchen at the back of the house. His terrified, pregnant wife, Elena, was there and he wanted my help to get her outside and into the relative safety of the woods. As we made our way to the door gunfire began blasting from the front of the farmhouse, followed by yells, screams and the ping of bullets bouncing off stone. The kitchen door swung open. It was Ilaria, the partisan girl. ‘This way!’ She beckoned to Elena who stumbled forward, Gaetano supporting her, myself following. Too late, we heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon being cocked and a voice ordering, ‘Stop!’

  Ilaria didn’t hesitate: without looking back,
she pushed Elena and Gaetano out onto the hillside, slammed the door after them, leaned her back defiantly against it and faced the intruder. Her eyes widened in shocked recognition.

  That moment of recognition is the last thing I remember of the massacre at the farmhouse.

  CHAPTER I

  WHEN THE TAXI dropped Nico and his family at Via del Corno he felt a deep sense of disappointment. It was nothing like his fantasy of a Florentine street: it should have been a row of square but graceful houses with shady trees casting shadows over two stone steps leading up to the front doors. This was a narrow, flagged alley with blocks of very tall buildings stretching along each side. At least the one they were going to stay in did have an imposing wooden door with the two stone steps he had imagined in his dreams, but even they were spoiled by having Mum’s latest boyfriend, James, standing on them.

  Nico’s scowl twitched to a grin as another taxi stopped at the house and a man bounded out, ran up the steps past James, pressed the entry phone and announced, ‘Mr and Mrs Thompson and girls.’ The box on the wall squawked and the door clicked open. The Thompsons picked up their jumble of cases and bags and went into the house. James sent an exaggerated sigh in their direction, hefted his black leather suitcases and nodded to Nico’s mother. ‘In you go, Hattie.’

  ‘After you, you’ve got the heavy cases,’ Mum said.

  ‘Ladies first.’

  Oh, make up your minds! Nico thought. They could be here all day while James and Mum tried to outdo each other with thoughtfulness. Nico decided for them and marched into the house in a swirl of black coat. Mum followed and James came in last, dropping the cases in the lobby. Mrs Thompson was talking in rapid Italian to a sturdy young woman standing by the open door to a ground-floor flat. One of the Thompson girls turned and smiled at Nico. ‘This is Ornella. She says we’ve all got to come inside and meet the landlady.’

  Nico couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Right.’

  ‘Andiamo,’ James said in his best holiday Italian.

  Nico rolled his black-rimmed eyes in exasperation. Why couldn’t the muppet James just say ‘Let’s go’, like everybody else?

  ‘Dio mio!’ Ornella stared with fascinated horror at Nico’s kohl-edged eyes. He blinked once – slowly – then stared back steadily. Ornella bent her fingers into the sign against the evil eye. Nico was impressed; he’d never had that effect on anyone before.

  ‘Come on,’ Mum said. Nico tramped forwards, his boots thudding over the marble floor. Ornella guided them into a large room hung with photographs and ornately decorated certificates in gold frames. An elegant old lady sat at a huge table covered in a crisp white cloth.

  James ushered Nico and Mum to the table and as Nico tugged at a hefty chair he somehow grabbed a handful of the damask cloth and almost pulled it off the table. The maid sniggered. The Signora spoke sharply to her and Ornella disappeared into another room.

  Mum patted the cloth back into place. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  Nico slumped into the chair. What did she think she was doing, apologising for him? It was humiliating. They’d only been here five minutes and she was already making him look a fool.

  ‘It does not matter,’ the old lady said. ‘Let us introduce ourselves. I am Signora Minardi and,’ she turned to the Thompsons, ‘you are Mr and Mrs Thompson from Derby, no?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mr Thompson said. ‘I’m Kevin, this is my wife, Luisa, and these are my daughters, Jade and Amber.’

  ‘Luisa, that is an Italian name, no?’

  ‘It can be English too,’ Mrs Thompson said. Nico thought she spoke sharply considering the question was perfectly reasonable.

  ‘But you speak Italian perfectly!’ The Signora’s eyes were round with admiration. Nico thought they were also shrewd and inquisitive. He glanced at the girl who’d spoken to him in the lobby, Jade. She had an odd, closed look on her face.

  The Signora went on, ‘I heard you speaking to Ornella – so perfectly, so politely.’

  Nico noticed that though the old lady’s voice was warm and her smile kindly, her bird-like old hands were clenched tightly and her knuckles were white.

  ‘And your daughters too, spoke to Ornella in Italian.’ Signora Minardi turned to Jade and Amber. ‘How is it that you speak the language fluently?’

  Nico could see Jade struggled not to smile and tell the Signora what she wanted to know. He wondered why Jade was hesitant; the old lady’s question was harmless. Jade’s sister said bluntly: ‘Our granddad, our nonno, he was Italian and we learned off him.’

  ‘How charming.’ Signora Minardi’s eyes flickered from one sister to the other: ‘You are twins!’

  Nico was annoyed he hadn’t noticed something as obvious as identical twins. But then he’d been too busy looking at Jade to look properly at Amber. Besides, they were dressed differently and had different hair – Jade’s was shorter than Amber’s and spiked up.

  Signora Minardi smiled at Luisa and Kevin. ‘It is a beautiful thing to have children,’ she said and then with a disconcerting switch, ‘You are Mr and Mrs Crozier from Brighton?’ she said to Mum and James.

  ‘Yes,’ Mum said, though it was only half true. ‘I’m Hattie, this is James and this is Nicholas.’

  ‘I’m Nico,’ Nico said.

  Polite ‘hellos’ echoed round the table. Nico risked another glance at Jade. They exchanged small, cautious smiles. The other twin – Amber – stared at him suspiciously.

  The maid came in and put a tray of refreshments on the table. The Signora gestured graciously and said, ‘You will all take coffee? And the children perhaps fruit juices?’

  The Signora was too authoritarian, Nico thought as he defiantly chose a tiny cup of coffee and sipped. Instantly he wished he hadn’t. The bitter brown sludge sat malevolently in the bottom of its little white cup like a dose of poison. Nico drank it in one agonising gulp. Why weren’t there any biscuits to take the taste away? He looked hopefully towards a bulky sideboard but there was no sign of biscuits, only a silver-framed old black and white photograph of a young man and woman sitting in a field of flowers.

  ‘Now we do the informations,’ the Signora said. She passed pamphlets down the table. ‘Here are maps and directions to the important places, also the emergency services.’

  Nico knew his mother was going to take careful note of those.

  The Signora went on, ‘I have indicated the best restaurants . . .’

  ‘Restaurants?’ James interrupted, his loud voice drowning out the old lady’s.

  Nico turned away in embarrassment and saw Jade looking at him sympathetically.

  Signora Minardi went on, ‘I can recommend to you a restaurant in a small town, only half an hour’s drive away.’

  ‘What’s the town called?’ James asked.

  ‘Borgo Sant’Angelo.’

  Nico’s mother drew in a sharp breath but he was too fascinated by the Thompsons’ reactions to pay attention. Mrs Thompson’s mouth was pressed into an angry line and Mr Thompson squeezed her hand in what Nico thought was a comforting gesture though he wasn’t sure: it might have been a warning. He couldn’t make sense of the twins’ reaction at all: they seemed to shrink into a kind of frozen watchfulness. The family masked their reactions so quickly that Nico was sure only he and the Signora had noticed before James boomed, ‘What’s the name of the restaurant?’

  ‘Il Nido,’ the Signora said.

  ‘You know it well?’ James thundered on.

  The maid laughed softly as she poured more coffee for James.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Signora Minardi said. ‘I have a house in Borgo Sant’Angelo. I divide my time between there and Florence.’

  ‘This Borgo Sant’Angelo,’ Mum said, ‘it’s not the model for E. J. Holm’s Montebosco, is it?’

  Signora Minardi nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Mum said, beamin
g.

  ‘Who’s E. J. Holm?’ Jade asked.

  ‘He’s a crime writer,’ Nico said. ‘His detective, Alessandro Lupo, lives in Montebosco and fans are always trying to find out if it’s based on a real town. Mum’s done her research – she thinks it’s Borgo Sant’Angelo.’

  ‘She’s a fan then?’

  Nico nodded. He wasn’t going to confess that he was as well, not after hearing the disbelief in Jade’s voice.

  ‘You must all visit there,’ Signora Minardi said. ‘In fact, you shall be my guests at Il Nido. Shall we say, Tuesday? It will give you three days to settle in. We shall have dinner at 7.00. And now . . .’

  The arrangements were made so suddenly that no one had a chance to disagree before the Signora was passing keys down the table and starting up a whole new topic for James to complain about. Nico’s heart clenched as James frowned at the label on his keys. ‘This says first floor. I booked the ground floor. There’s been a mistake.’

  ‘There is no mistake,’ the Signora said.

  ‘It says ground floor on our booking forms,’ Luisa said, ‘piano terra.’

  ‘We don’t mind swapping, do we, Lu?’ Mr Thompson said.

  ‘I don’t see why not. What do you think, girls?’

  The twins nodded in unison like a pair of metronomes perched side by side on top of a piano.

  ‘The apartments they are identical,’ Signora Minardi said. ‘You may exchange without a problem but please decide now before Ornella brings your suitcases from the hall.’

  ‘All right,’ James said.

  You might’ve asked us, Nico thought resentfully as James swapped keys with Mr Thompson.

  Jade and Amber leaned over the balcony outside their bedroom and looked down into the tiny garden. It had a lot packed into it in a haphazard sort of way: at the far end there was a table with a striped umbrella and four chairs shaded by some lush trees while the few bushes and flowers looked as though they’d arrived by chance and survived by not giving any trouble.

  Jade read the guidelines she’d found in the flat. ‘It says you can hang washing in the garden.’