Constant Tides

by Peter Crawley

  With the promise of further pain, she is again moved to tears. However, gradually learning from her new tutor the subtle difference between being in one instant stoic in the face of adversity and in the next honest regarding her physical state, Lilla manages, somehow, not to fold.

  “When can we leave, Prudence? Didn’t Dottore Roselli suggest it would be better for both of us if we did?”

  “Yes, poppet, that’s exactly what he said. There are still more injured coming in and he is very pressed, but more and more doctors and nurses are arriving. I hear Dr Douglas is coming from Rome with three nurses, the British Fleet in Malta are sending more and your government is mobilising all the medical forces it has at its disposal. Very soon, we’ll only be in the way.”

  “When are we leaving then?”

  Prudence beams. “Tomorrow. New Year’s Day. A new year and a new beginning for the pair of us.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because of what Mr Gordon told me. He said he was indebted to you for taking up so much of his time when he met you outside the Trinacria; said if you hadn’t kept him talking, he’d have been in the telegraph office when the roof came down.”

  Lilla winces, though this time not from the pain generated by her leg, more from the mental anguish generated by the untimely reference to people being buried beneath fallen roofs.

  “Sorry, Lilla, that wasn’t very tactful of me, now was it?”

  Lilla dredges up a wan smile. “That’s all right, Prudence. Go on, what else did Mr Gordon have to say?”

  Her apology accepted, she carries right on: “Mr Gordon told me that there’s a big German liner on its way. Oh, what is she called? Ah, the Bremen, that’s it, the Bremen; on her way back from Australia. Came through the Suez Canal, would you believe. They say she’ll be stopping to pick up here in Messina tomorrow and then going on to Naples. Mr Gordon tells me, he knows the people at the North German Lloyds line and he’s going to try to get a message to them, asking if he can reserve us passage. Although that,” she says, as a cloud passes over her thoughts, “depends on how your leg fares.”

  Dottore Roselli reappears, in his right hand a glass jar containing some clear fluid in which jangle a pair of long scissors and a scalpel, in his left a cup of water. “Would you…?” He inclines his head towards a small occasional table standing by the adjacent cot.

  Prudence moves the table closer.

  “Thank you. Now, be kind enough to pass me the phial of chloral hydrate, fetch me some carbolic acid and a swab, and, while you are at the dispensary, some more surgical spirit and some clean bandages.”

  Prudence Robertson nods obediently and leaves.

  “Now, my little angel of the full moon,” he says, as he snaps the end off the glass phial, holds it up to the light and administers three drops into the cup of water, “I apologise for not having fruit juice or a little wine to improve the taste, so hold your nose, this will make you feel a little sleepy. Don’t be alarmed, that is exactly what it should do and what I want it to do. But please, try not to get too sleepy, I need you to stay awake to tell me when I am hurting you. Do you understand?”

  Lilla nods, forewarned and forearmed, if quite naturally petrified.

  Chapter 27

  A stretcher. Lilla has never imagined herself being carried on a stretcher. Surely, this frame of wood, onto which a canvas sail is usually nailed, is used solely for the removal of the deceased from the house in which they have died; the same house in which they were very probably born. In consequence, to be carried alive on a stretcher is a pleasing if slightly unsettling experience.

  Her head bounces with each step her out–of–step bearers take, disturbing the residue of nausea that had woken her several times during the night.

  Prudence walks beside her, watching her feet lest she trip in one of the wide fissures that follow the tramlines down the harbourfront. “Are you feeling all right, Lilla?”

  “No. I feel sick. I–” She leans over the side of the stretcher and vomits.

  Her stretcher–bearers, two grey–jacketed Bersagliere, their wide–brimmed vaira hats decorated with capercaillie feathers, pause until she has finished.

  “Better, now?” one of them asks, wrinkling his nose.

  “No, not much,” she replies, wiping her mouth. “I feel as though my head has bounced all the way down the steps of the Chiesa San Gregorio.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear,” Prudence says, glaring at the soldier. “That’s just the effects of the chloral hydrate; it’ll wear off soon enough.”

  “Not soon enough for me; I need a toilet. Where are we going? Is it far?”

  “No, these kind gentlemen are taking us to a tender which will get us out to the ship we are taking to Naples. It’s not far now and Mr Gordon will meet us there.”

  “I’ve never been on a grand boat before,” Lilla mentions, as much to herself as to her attendants. “Come to think of it, I’ve never so much as been across the Strait. I think the furthest I’ve ever been anywhere is Ganzirri and that was only to see relations of Rosario and Gaetano.” She claps her hands to her face. “Oh, I can’t believe it: this is the first time I have thought of them since the morning of the…”

  The lead Bersagliere falters in his stride. “They say there are a thousand or more dead in Ganzirri. They say the wave washed away the whole village.”

  Lilla glances up at the stretcher bearer, firing him a look of unadulterated hatred before realising that it is not the man’s fault that he does not know how one should impart bad news; if, that is, there is a good way. “Will the sea be rough today?” she asks, looking away from him.

  “Well,” Prudence considers, studying the overcast sky, “There’s a few line squalls coming through and there’s a cold wind from the north, but we shouldn’t be troubled: a ship as large as the Bremen will make light work of it, don’t you worry.”

  “How long will the journey take?”

  “About twelve hours, so Mr Gordon said. If we get away by dusk, we should get in at dawn. And a beautiful sight it will be, too. Vesuvius will be snow–capped, the–”

  “What’s Vesuvius?”

  “A volcano.”

  “Like Etna?”

  “Yes, like Etna,” Prudence replies, a worn edge dividing her patience.

  “Enzo said there is a monster trapped under Etna; is there another one trapped under Vesuvius?”

  “She likes to ask questions, eh?” one of the Bersagliere quips.

  Prudence ignores him. “Not like Typhon is under Etna, no.”

  “Are there volcanoes and earthquakes in England?”

  “Oh, I see where you’re going with this, Lilla. Yes, we have volcanoes in England and, thankfully, they’re all sleeping; we don’t disturb them and they don’t disturb us. That’s the way it’s been for a good while and I see no reason for it to change. As for earthquakes, I do believe we had one a few years ago: The Great Colchester Earthquake, if I remember right. A few tiles fell from a roof; a few garden statues came to life. You’re not to worry, my girl, we’ll encounter nothing that measures against what’s gone on here.”

  All along the seafront, soldiers and sailors are putting their backs into clearing the rubble and shoring up facades with beams and sawn timbers they have requisitioned from inside the hollowed–out houses. Hundreds of wooden barrels of fresh water line the road in rows three–to–four deep and a man wearing an apron busies himself butchering a carcass of beef. Further along the quay, the road has slipped and submerged, and a lamppost pokes up from the water, bent at an angle.

  Lilla does not need to see the harbour to know that it is a hive of activity; lying, looking up at the quarrelsome clouds, all she can hear is the constant thrum of engines punctuated by the mournful bawl of ship’s horns.

  Her stretcher–bearers halt and lay her down.

  Lilla looks up:
“Mr Gordon!”

  “Yes, one and the same. Can this be the same young Lilla Lunapiena I met outside the Hotel Trinacria in the minutes before such calamity broke upon this once beautiful city? The same young lady who granted me one of the best scaniatu I have ever had the pleasure of sampling? Good thing you did, too. That scaniatu was the last morsel that passed my lips for many hours.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Gordon, I don’t have any more scaniatu. I’m very pleased to see you have no injuries. You went off to the telegraph office at the station.”

  “I did, correct. And had it not been for our conversation delaying my arrival, there’s a good chance I might not be here in person to meet you now.”

  Not yet educated in the niceties of verbal exchange, Lilla cuts right to the chase: “Have you managed to get us on board the ship Prudence told me about? Was it easy? I should think there are lots of people who can’t wait to get away from here.”

  In contrast to most others milling about the front, and certainly in contrast to Lilla and Prudence, Nathaniel Gordon has somehow managed to maintain his sartorial refinement. He hitches up his trousers and squats, miner–like, so that he no longer has to look down at her. “Yes, young Lilla of the full moon, difficult though it has been, I have. And not only that, because of the injury to your leg, a nice couple have agreed to move quarters and let you and Prudence have their cabin; a cabin with a sea view, no less.

  “Oh, Mr Gordon, you are a clever man. How can we ever repay you?”

  “Why, Lilla, it is I who will forever be in your debt. Consider this a part payment.” He stands, slowly, his limbs audibly objecting. “Prudence, I had thought that I might travel back with you to Naples, what with most of Messina having been brought to ground. However, my office thinks it imperative that I stay, there being no end of claims to process as a result of this catastrophe,” a word he pronounces in French, “and I have managed to locate some lodging at Le Phenix, a boarding house down the way, one of the very few that remains intact. So, I’m afraid I won’t be accompanying you and trust you will be able to make arrangements for the rest of your journey to Britain when you arrive in Naples?”

  Prudence scoffs, though not impolitely, “I should think, Nathaniel, that after what has befallen us these past few days, very little will be beyond our combined abilities.” She grins down at her new companion. “Isn’t that so, Lilla?”

  A blue–uniformed sailor strides purposefully through the crowds towards them, his cap banded by a black tally ribbon with gold lettering spaced either side of a white flag with blue anchor and crossed key. “Herr Gordon,” he bows. “I am Second Officer Speckmann. Kapitän Nierich sends to you his compliments and respectfully requests that we bring your passengers to the ship as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, Second Officer Speckmann. And please extend to the Kapitän my grateful thanks for agreeing to accommodate these good people. As you have no doubt noticed this young lady is unable to walk, so if you would be kind enough to…”

  “Yes, of course. At once.” He nods to the two crewmen who now stand at attention beside him.

  His pained expression a mixture of relief tinged with regret, Nathaniel Gordon turns to the two women. “Prudence, these men will load Lilla into the launch and convey you both out to the SS Bremen.” He looks down at Lilla as the crewmen carefully lift her makeshift stretcher. “Young lady, as I said I am much in your debt. If ever I can be of service, Prudence will know how to contact me. Good luck, Godspeed and I hope one day we will meet again.”

  Chapter 28

  The journey to consciousness is slow and troubling and begins with him staring wide–eyed into a formless void filled with blue–grey water that promises eternal peace and contentment.

  He is floating, neither descending nor ascending, simply watching and waiting for something to happen. Is he to be drawn down beyond reach, his self, both mental and physical, to be consigned to a watery grave? Or should he fight, fight to be conscious once more, fight to live and not to slip away?

  And as he floats, he perceives a voice calling him, calling his name, encouraging him up to a surface that is encompassed by sky and land, one that has form and substance.

  But who is calling his name?

  The voice belongs not to Lilla; for whoever it is that is calling him is a man, his tone gruff and imperative, a world away from Lilla’s cool and lively variation.

  Enzo stares up at the same square of khaki canvas he remembers staring at as he slipped so gently into his coma. The canvas ripples, like a windblown curtain.

  Movement.

  He is awake. He realises he must be.

  He tries to turn his head and… he succeeds.

  “Enzo, can you hear me? Can you see me? It is me, Pipo.”

  He blinks, slowly, urging his eyes to focus. This man; this face. His expression is sad, like that of a man who follows the casket of a friend.

  “Pipo, what are you doing here?”

  “Looking for… a relation. I asked the doctors if someone new had been brought in and they thought, because you have not spoken and therefore could not identify yourself, that you might be him.” Pipo looks down away from the cot, his expression forlorn and filled with guilt. “Please don’t think I am not pleased to find you, Enzo; I am pleased to find anyone alive and to find someone one knows is a blessing.”

  “Yes, Pipo, thank you, you are right: I am alive even if I don’t feel so.” He struggles to raise his shoulders off the cot.

  “You must rest. The doctors tell me that for many hours your life has been in the balance. They tell me you were so cold that your skin was like stone to touch. How do you feel?”

  “Tired, Pipo. Like everyone, tired. Tell me, what is it like outside? How long have I been here? Have you–”

  “Outside? Beyond this tent? I’m not sure I know how to describe such devastation. All I know is that for the time being Messina is lost. Her eyes no longer see; they have turned dull, like those of the swordfish when she knows there is no longer any reason for hope. As to how long have you been here: the doctors say you were brought in yesterday. A party of Russian sailors found you crawling along the street. They say your legs do not work, is that so?”

  Enzo grunts as he tries and fails to ease himself up onto his elbows. “To order one’s body to respond when there is no sensation is like ordering a corpse to rise up and walk. As you can see, Pipo, they…”

  The old fisherman places his comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “No matter. Rest. Keep still. Perhaps when you are warm again, life will return to them.”

  “Pipo?”

  “Yes, Enzo.”

  “You say you are looking for a relation; have you been to other aid stations? Is there no one who knows who is missing?”

  Arching his eyebrows and splaying his hands, he shrugs. “No one knows who is missing and no one knows who has survived. There is no council to make a reckoning, for nearly all the officials died in the earthquake or were killed by the great wave. There are thousands missing. Not hundreds, thousands.”

  “And Concettina?”

  “She is safe.” He crosses himself. “We were fortunate. Others were not so.”

  Enzo chews his lip, his eyes water and much to his shame he finds he is incapable of raising his hand to his face to conceal the evidence of his anguish. “Pipo, do you have any news of Lilla? I left her in the harbour. I…”

  The old man’s face crumples and creases, and then breaks into a smile that borders, but only borders, on ecstatic. “Yes, Enzo, Lilla is alive. She is injured, like many, but only her leg, which I am pleased to say will heal.”

  “Oh Pipo. Oh…” He tries to raise his hands to his face again and it is as though the relief of knowing Lilla survives empowers his arms. “Oh, Pipo. Thank God. Thank the Madonna: I thought she had abandoned us. I thought we had all been forgotten.” Tears flow, cutting a pa
th like a river through the dust and dirt caked on his cheeks, and he sobs openly, unconcerned that those who may be less fortunate have no alternative other than to bear witness to his joy. When he manages to regain his composure, he asks, “What of the Lunapiena family? Did they survive?”

  This last of his questions causes Pipo to replace his smile with an expression of such profound and unbearable heartbreak, that Enzo realises no spoken answer is necessary.

  “All of them?”

  Pipo nods.

  “I am so sorry,” Enzo whispers. “So very sorry. I know how much you loved them; how much they meant to you.”

  “Yes,” he mutters, looking down once more and fingering nervously his cap. “I am a hollow man. If it was not for my family, I would find little reason to continue.”

  “But we must, Pipo. We must continue. Out of bad always comes some good. What we must do now is find the good, this will provide us with every reason to continue.” Enzo studies the fisherman: the bags beneath his eyes in which he carries his sadness, the lines about his eyes in which he carries his wisdom, the light within his eyes in which he carries his memories. That light even now as he avoids Enzo’s look, is dimming with every breath. Some other misery, not yet spoken of, bothers him.

  “What is it, Pipo? What is bothering you?”

  Pipo dithers. He toys with his cap. He feeds the rim through his fingers; he thins his lips, his moustache swallowing his mouth, his eyes darting left and right, avoiding even the slightest prospect that they might engage with those of the young man lying on the cot.

  A shiver dances through Enzo’s limbs, causing his legs to twitch uncontrollably.

  The fisherman notices. He smiles, albeit that his smile would achieve only a middling position in a race of smiles. “Look! Your legs! They move! Your muscles are beginning to work again. The doctor told me there was a good chance your paralysis would be temporary. That is more good news.”