Last Train from Liguria

by Christine Dwyer Hickey

  Bella. She hears it over and over, flitting in and out of every sentence, so that for a few bewildering seconds it seems as if she is the topic of all conversations. But they seem to admire everything, the Italians. Then they admire each other. She likes that about them, their childlike ability to be constantly enchanted. Unlike the English, who so often need to be persuaded.

  Bella closes her eyes. She hears the drum of footbeats along the upper decks, the yelping carousel of gulls, the many exuberant voices. Here and there she tries to untangle a conversation; since crossing the border at Ventimiglia yesterday, it's become an increasing anxiety. Childhood kitchen conversations with her father's ancient Italian godmother; faded textbooks from second-hand barrows along the Embankment; grammar classes in the Scuola di Sorrento on the Brompton Road; even recent nights spent in the translation of long dreary passages at the dining-room table – nothing, but nothing, could have prepared her for this extravaganza.

  The thoughts of Sicily! Of not being understood, not even being able to understand; the child in her care; the rest of the household; and as for the notorious dialect? It could mean having to make a constant nuisance of herself with Signora Lami, asking her to translate this and that. And the Signora's letter had hardly given the impression of an approachable woman, never mind one who would be amused by a résumé that would turn out to be at best an exaggeration, at worst a bare-faced lie. ('I am pleased to say I speak Italian fluently and have difficulty with neither the written nor the spoken word.') What had she been thinking of, to claim such a thing? She would blame the dialect, that's what she'd do. Just until her ear accustomed itself to its new environment. She could say – Mi dispiace, ma il… il dialecto… No – il dialetto…

  Behind her an old man begins to speak; a rusted voice, a slow delivery, and she is cheered to find she can follow his story with relative ease. He is telling a fellow passenger about the wedding he has just attended. His nephew's wedding, on the far side of Liguria, in a small hilltown called Dolceacqua – perhaps he knows it?

  No, the companion does not, but has heard it is a beautiful place. Certo è bello. Most beautiful, just as the wedding was, the food, the weather, the olives, the church. And as for the wine of that region! Oh and the flowers. Everything. Everything. Except for, and unfortunately, the bride. When he says this there is a pause – a sigh from the speaker, a soft tut of condolence from his companion. Yet he will not say the bride is ugly, Bella notes, simply that she is not beautiful. Non è bella. But she has such a good heart, the old man emotionally concludes. So full of kindness. It is from here her real beauty shines, the heart. They will be happy, he is certain of it.

  Of course they will, his companion agrees. Why wouldn't they be? Young, in love, living in Dolceacqua, most beautiful.

  And she likes that too, the way they recognize it's not the bride's fault if she is no beauty, the way they imply she must nonetheless be loved, and made happy.

  The faces on the dockside recede and crumble. The farewell handkerchiefs relent, and the brass band that an hour ago had caterwauled the passengers aboard plays fewer, weaker notes now. She is happy for a moment. That moment falls from her, is swished away to be replaced by another – this time one of dread. Far too conspicuous, she is, far too alone, here amongst these chattering strangers. And she must be careful of her back, already straining from days spent on rock-hard train seats, nights on inadequate mattresses.

  The crowd thickens. Further up the deck there is an unexpected push and she turns slightly to see a fat boy barging through. His head, a curly black marker of his progress, pops up now and then, his voice a constant high-pitched chant: 'Voglio vedere!' I want to see, I want to see.

  People step back for him, pat his head, pluck his cheek, help him bully his way forward. This fat boy is now in charge of the crowd. When he shoves, it buckles. When he pulls at a coat or paws at a backside, there is indulgent laughter. Eventually she sees he has arrived at the railing just a few feet from her. He begins to scream angrily at the sea and appears to be hurling imaginary stones overboard as though he wants to somehow injure it. But in no time at all he becomes bored by all this. Then he starts roaring for his mother, 'Mamma! Mamma!' and an affectionate 'Ahhhh…' breaks out around him. Bella can't get over what a brat he is – God, say the Lami boy won't be like this.

  'Permesso! Permesso!' The boy bounces himself off the railing and presses back into the crowd. This sudden movement causes the old man behind her to be pushed forward. She tenses her back. A snarl of pain runs down her spine and into her hip. 'Scusi,' the man says; his voice, warm as an egg, sits for a moment in her ear.

  She decides to go back to her cabin, turns from the railing and finds that after a few unsuccessful attempts the only way through is to raise her voice until, like the fat boy, she is shouting, 'Permesso! Permesso!'

  At last the old man and his companion hear her; they stand aside, create a sort of guard of honour consisting of old-fashioned walking canes and shoes so polished they look like glacéd cakes. They guide her through. She doesn't have to look at their faces to know they are studying hers. She passes, listens for a comment, a sigh or tut. But there is nothing.

  *

  The stink of the cabin! It haws its breath around her as soon as she steps through the door. Bella stays for a moment and considers the neighbouring cabins, doors pinned back by baggage or dressing stools to suck in whatever ocean air might happen to stray this way. But to leave the door open would be to invite full view of herself; nightgown on the bed, web of dead hair caught in the bristles of her hairbrush. Her mother's old alligator travel bag. It would also mean having to smile and respond to the greetings of every passer-by who, she had been startled to note, seemed to think nothing of stopping and staring right into an open cabin with a hearty 'Buon giorno!' She closes the door, then locks it. And sorry, now, that she exchanged Signora Lami's first-class ticket for a refund and a cabin such as this, with its grimy basin and cracked water jug. That monk-shaped stain along one wall. Shabby bed sheet and greasy head print on the pillow – pomade, she supposes.

  Bella feels a little shaky, perhaps from hunger, but she is far too nervy now to go in search of anything to eat (at least in first class she could have rung for service). Perhaps it's pain? She rubs her lower back, considers taking one of the sachets her father has prescribed. But she knows the shape of pain, its sneaky ways, and knows that it is nothing now to what it might yet become before this journey's over. Hours to go. The rest of this sea voyage for a start; a stop-off at Naples to drop or pick up more passengers; then on to Sicily and the city of Palermo; a further two, maybe three hours cross-country before she would reach the Lami villa. She could be left in agony for days. She counts the sachets, only six.

  Now at the travel bag, from an inner pocket she pulls out a pouch, which in turn gives way to another pouch – a long sausage shape wrapped in lace and secured at both ends by a twist. In her mind she calls this her money-tuck. Bella opens and spreads its skin of lace, exposing a stuffing made up of notes folded into each other, or notes grasped tightly around coins. Her fingers tip over the colours and faces of different denominations before taking her purse out of her pocket to remove the amount saved, so far, today. This she adds to and moulds into the pile. Rolling the sausage back into shape, re-twisting the ends, she bats the money-tuck between her palms for a moment before returning it to the pouch, within the pouch, and finally into the inner pocket of the travel bag. From the opposite side of the bag she pulls out a flask of water along with two biscotti and an apple saved over from breakfast. Then lays them on the cabin table beside an American magazine someone has left behind on the train, containing an article by G.B. Shaw and an exposé on the private life of Clark Gable – a hole gaping in the page where a fan has cut out his face. Steadier now, Bella picks up the portfolio of travel documents, flicking through until she finds her birth certificate inserted between the many pages of Signora Lami's directions. Anabelle Mary Stuart – shortened to Bella si
nce childhood.

  Into a basin half filled with water go a splash of cologne, two slow drops of lavender essence. Jacket and blouse removed, wrists cooling in water, she turns her head in the mirror and examines her face. Profile, quarter profile, front. Anabelle Mary Stuart. Mary Stuart maybe? Or does that seem to have a bit too much to say for itself? Anna then. Anna Stuart. Or what about Anne? Drop the 'e', even better the 'n'.

  An – an indefinite article.

  *

  Signora Lami's directions had been nothing if not explicit.

  They were delivered to Bella over a month ago in an elaborately bound parcel that turned out to be no less than a hatbox. It had puzzled her then, as she cut through the wrapping, noting the covering letter on Savoy Hotel stationery together with the index of instructions, train timetables, travel itinerary and a bunch of numbered envelopes; besides, if the Signora was staying at the Savoy, why go to this trouble, why not simply arrange an interview to give the instructions in person? It wasn't as if the Savoy was a million miles from Chelsea. And it would have broken the ice; after all, they would be living under the same roof in less than a month, and surely the Signora must have some curiosity about her son's future governess. Or nanny, or teacher, or companion or whoever it was she was soon expected to be?

  The delivery boy, done up like a doll in Savoy livery, had shuffled on the doorstep while he waited for her to sign the receipt. Sniffing about inside his head, no doubt, for something to say that would take them both up to, and safely past, the moment that would decide his tip. Bella had been expecting the weather, the traffic, a newspaper scandal half-read or overheard. In the end he surprised her by blurting out, 'She made that many mistakes!'

  'Who did?'

  ''Er…'' He nodded at the parcel in Bella's hands. 'Wastepaper basket full up to…'' The boy lifted his hand to his forehead as if he were the basket in question. 'Twice she sends for me to get more paper, I-mean-to-say-stationery. Twice. But when I come back like she says in an hour, all's right and ready to go.'

  'Oh well, perhaps her English is not quite?'

  'A fusspot is all.'

  Bella groped through the coins in her purse. 'How long has Signora Lami been at the Savoy?'

  'Fortnight, miss.'

  'That long?'

  'Leaves tomorrow, she does, miss.'

  'Tomorrow – are you sure?'

  'Oh yes, miss. For Sicily.'

  She could see the boy liked the word Sicily, turning it over in his mouth, playing it between his small grey teeth.

  'Where did you say?'

  'Siss-a-lee.'

  'I should send a reply.'

  'No! She don't want none. Look it says so. There.' He pointed to the top of the receipt. 'Ree-ply. Not. Ree-quired.'

  She had stood at the door for a moment, watching the doll-boy walk down to the gate where his little leg cocked over his bicycle. Within a few seconds he was at the end of the road, the bicycle plunging out onto the main road alongside a double-decker bus. She should have made more use of him. Another sixpence might have bought her a few extra brushstrokes. A shilling, a portrait, fully framed. How old was the Signora, for example? How fluent was her English? Was she calm, nervous, pretty, plain? Had there been a child with her? A husband? Did she have any callers? Had she dined in or out? And was it a suite or a bedroom where she had brimmed up the basket with her many mistakes?

  Later, in her bedroom, Bella had spread the documents across the bed. First glance and she could already tell they would tolerate no deviation, and as for any untoward acts of initiative – well, she could put such nonsense straight out of her head. These weren't directions, these were orders and were even laid out on paper that looked like legal parchment. She read them again: 'Sit away from the window in this train. Stay in your cabin on that ship. Drink nothing that hasn't come from the hand of a waiter. Lock your door after dinner. In the street in Genoa neither look at nor speak to anyone – not even a priest.'

  Really! It was as if she were a child or an imbecile. Nothing was permitted without the say-so of Signora Lami, from where, when and what she should eat, to the amount each porter should be tipped (a lesser amount the further she got from England, as it so happened). In fact, the only thing the Signora had omitted was a lavatory timetable.

  Bella had picked up the bunch of envelopes. Each one numbered, dated and labelled with a more concise version of the instructions on the parchment. Inside was an appropriate amount of money to cover every situation from overnight hotels to taxicab fares. One envelope was stamped with the Thomas Cook logo. Bella had slit it open and looked inside. First-class tickets all the way. Father had certainly been right on that score – Bella was not expected to produce so much as a farthing from her own pocket.

  She had rolled up the parchment, refolded the letter (which contained not the slightest hint of warmth or welcome), arranged the envelopes into chronological sequence and tied everything together with a piece of string. Bella had then slipped this package into a portfolio and shoved it into the back of the wardrobe, where it took up much less room and seemed to make much less fuss than it had done in the hatbox.

  It was her father who had arranged the position, introducing the idea to Bella in early spring. 'I think it would do you the world of good,' was to become his recurring expression, as if he were talking about a day at the seaside or a course of cod liver oil. At first she hadn't paid the matter much heed – it was probably just one of his 'notions', as her late mother might have put it. 'Best ignored, soonest fizzled.' When the subject persisted it began to dawn on Bella that the poor man simply felt in need of a little reassurance – just enough to preserve the dignity of both father and daughter in their present arrangement. For her part, that she fully understood she was free to go if she so wished. For his part, that she insisted she would much, much rather stay.

  And so she had humoured him for a while with soothing smiles and a little teasing. 'Yes, Father, I'm sure Sicily must be quite beautiful but I'm happy, thank you all the same, to stay where I am. And yes it must be lovely to wake each day-in-day-out to the sun – if not a little tedious.' She also gave the occasional chide. 'Oh, Father, now really. Stop it! Or I might just go off and leave you. And then where would you be?'

  But what had started out as a flimsy notion had somehow solidified into a definite plan and one morning just before Easter there was her father, flapping a letter over his boiled egg and toast. 'It's marvellous news, marvellous, marvellous. And congratulations to you, Bella.'

  'To me – why? Have I won something?'

  'Such an adventure! A year or two in another country. Perhaps longer, she doesn't say how long you'll be needed, I'm afraid. Nor does she specify your duties. Never mind – all that can be ironed out when you meet Signora Lami.'

  'Who?'

  'Signora Lami. You remember? Bernstein in obstetrics recommended you.'

  'Bernstein?'

  'He's a friend of the Lami family. I believe he may even be related to her. Let me see now, I can't recall…''

  'Father.'

  'An opportunity like this doesn't come in every post bag, let me tell you. And you have the language. Well, as good as. I knew that mad old godmother of mine would come in useful in the end! Although it might be just as well to do a bit of brushing up before you leave. Early-to-mid May, she says. But you mustn't be impatient, my dear, by the time everything is organized you won't feel it going in. Now, about the Lamis; they are rolling in it by all accounts, so you'll want for nothing. There's the villa in Sicily and a summer residence on the Italian Riviera – if you don't mind – and God knows what else. There is also some German connection so you'll probably be popping off to Berlin or the like. You'll be mixing with the best, you know. So smarten up a bit beforehand. Streamline yourself – isn't that what it's all about now? Or so I overheard one of my nurses say. The boy, it seems, will be a cinch. Six years old, only child, meek as a mouse. Already has a nurse, a teacher and a music master too – good God! – so there ca
n't be that much for you to do. The Signora speaks excellent English of course, and she's young, I think, much younger than the hubby – probably a bit of a story there. Lonely, I daresay, be glad of a pal such as you. She wants you to write a letter of acceptance, tell her a bit about yourself, include a résumé – better plump it up a bit. And hear this, Bella – she says that although the journey may be long and often tiresome, she will do her utmost to make it a comfortable one. First class from start to finish. From what I can gather, no expense spared. Absolutely rrrr-olling in it. And as for Italy – a country on the up, you know, now that that Mussolini chap has given them all a good kick up the backside. We could do with his like here, put the country back to work. Not that it need concern you. All that art and sunshine – what I wouldn't give to be young again! I tell you, Bella, you're a girl who knows how to land on her feet and no mistake.'

  Bella could hardly believe it. 'Are you telling me it's all been arranged? That you have organized this behind my back?'

  'Really, my dear, it's not as if we haven't discussed it.'

  'But I thought you were joking.'

  'Joking? Why on earth would I do that?'

  'I just didn't realize you actually meant to go ahead and—'

  'Well, you certainly led me to believe you were—'

  'But I don't want to leave you,' she said. 'No. I won't and that's that.'

  'Oh, don't you worry about me – I have my work and plenty of it. Besides, Mrs Carter will be here every day.'

  'But it's not the same, Father. Mrs Carter isn't family. You'll be all alone. Coming home every night to an empty house. Nobody here. Always alone. I won't have it.'

  Crab-like, his fingers pressing Signora Lami's letter into the table, he cocked his head a little to one side, looked at her, then looked away. 'Oh, Bella. I'm so seldom home, you know – between the hospital and my other commitments – well, let's be honest, my dear. It's you. You who are always alone.'