Last Train from Liguria

by Christine Dwyer Hickey

Bella holds out her hand to him; he looks at it warily, then nods.

  'Piacere,' she says, returning the nod. She notices his eyelids flutter. 'Mi chiamo Signora Stuart.'

  He is staring at her, or through her, a funny expression in his eye. What they are expressing Bella couldn't guess. Arrogance, she thinks one moment, shyness the next, a mixture of both it seems to her then. Maybe he is just being inquisitive. She wishes he'd at least say something.

  'Sono di Londra, Inghilterra,' she continues.

  He looks down at his feet.

  She is slightly irked to find herself so unnerved by this six-year-old child, with his formal, if not necessarily good manners. Somewhere in the back of her mind there is a stored snippet of advice: an ignored child will eventually come around. She decides to pay no attention to him, to act as if all is exactly as it should be. She walks over to the balustrade and, pulling in an appreciative breath of evening air, gestures at the view, which is fast filling up with an absurdly extravagant sunset of saffron and rose. 'Che bella questa vista – è vero?'

  He winces.

  'Non è vero?' she persists.

  He opens his mouth as if he is going to say something but almost at once closes it again.

  She turns her back to him and waits. Soon it will be dark. Specks of electric light are already breaking out, down the hillside, over the town and in a carnival string along the part of the seafront which is visible from here. A tornado of evening starlings against the horizon fall in and out of formation. From the palm trees, fingers of shadow across one corner of the terrace. She can hear them fidget and wag.

  When she turns to look at him again his left leg is trembling. The poor child is making strange with her – that's what it is. Bella wants to put her arms around him or to reassure him in some way, but anytime she even looks as if she might step in his direction, he recoils. It must be the accent, she decides then. The child can't understand what she's saying. Of course! She must put more into her accent.

  'Alessandro?' she begins, pressing and rolling the syllables while rehearsing a few apt sentences in her head, along the lines of – I am your friend. I will not harm you. Please do not be nervous. She hunkers down to him, places her hands gently on the top of his arms and looks at him, this time using the name Elida had used. 'Alesso, senti. Sono la tua amica e spero che—'

  She feels him stiffen in her hands. His eyelids quiver for a moment and his eyeballs roll white. Bella, with a slight shock, releases him. Then he speaks. 'We are not permitted to speak Italian here, Signora,' he says, with the slightest stammer. 'O-only English.'

  His words are stern but his young boy's delicate voice takes the chill out of them. She almost laughs in his face.

  'Oh yes, of course. I apologize,' she says, straightening up and taking a step back.

  'Mamma says.'

  'Indeed.'

  'I do speak very good Italian.'

  'Well, of course.'

  'To P-Papa sometimes. And the men in the tennis factory for making the rackets.'

  'Yes, I see. The men in the tennis—'

  'And the people in the town. But not the English ones.'

  'No. I suppose not.'

  'When I write to P-Papa it's English although… Italian sometimes. And always English for Maestro Edward because…'

  'Yes. Yes, that's perfectly all right. I understand. Completely. And you speak English very well indeed – Alec. Is that what you would prefer me to call you – Alec?'

  He makes a gesture, half nod and half shrug. Then his eyes take another alarming flip.

  Bella decides to concentrate only on keeping the conversation in motion. 'I have just come from your Mamma in Sicily. It's very warm there.'

  'Yes, Signora.'

  'Too warm for you, I understand? Me too, I must say. Much better here. Although still very warm compared to where I live. I've come all the way from London, you know. In England. Queen Victoria was an English queen; she stayed here, I believe, in the hotel down the road. You must show it to me one day. Yes. But of course she's dead now. Now her son is the king. His name is George. '

  'Yes, Signora.'

  'Yes. Well, anyway. Alec, I just want to say, to you, that I hope we will be friends. Good friends. Very good friends indeed. In fact—'

  'Only the servants speak Italian here,' he says.

  Before she has a chance to answer him, he is walking away.

  Bella feels she should say something. At least leave some mark of authority on their first meeting. Have the last word then, if nothing else. But there is Elida suddenly in the doorway, a huge tray in her hands.

  Bella calls after him. 'Alec? One moment please, if you don't mind, I'm not quite…'

  There is no response until Elida, turning her head slightly, sends a hoarse bark over her shoulder.

  He comes back at once, and stands before Bella, one foot turned slightly in.

  'Have you eaten yet, Alec?'

  'I had dinner with Maestro Edward.'

  'Here? You had dinner here?'

  'No. At Damilano's in town. Maestro Edward said we should leave you to my cousins.'

  'I see.'

  'But then we saw them on the terrace of Bar Atu with the other Americans and they say they are having dinner later in the casino.'

  Elida steps forward with her tray. 'Signora. I have for you. You want in the dining room or here is good?'

  'Thank you, Elida. Here will be fine. Very well. Goodnight, Alec.'

  'Goodnight, Signora.'

  'Please come and see me after breakfast in the morning.'

  He bows again and starts for the door.

  'Yes, Alec, because you know tomorrow we must start lessons.'

  'Yes, Signora.'

  'Very well, you may go now,' she says, even though he is already well past Elida and halfway down the landing.

  *

  Tomorrow comes and Bella waits. After breakfast, after lunch, and still no show from Alec. Elida delivers her meals to the library without being asked to, but it suits Bella well enough not to have to deal with the American cousins. Or to have to acknowledge in any manner the way they sneaked out to dinner the night before without a word. A slight, no doubt intended, but one she hadn't felt at all. She had woken just before dawn to the racket of their drunken homecoming, and although she hadn't been able to make out what they were saying, Bella felt sure she had been the butt of all that hooting and neighing out in the garden, in the hallway and a little later on the stairs.

  Some time after lunch, when Bella finally hears them go out – this time with a conspicuous absence of laughter or chat – she comes downstairs in search of Alec. He is in the kitchen with Elida, the two of them chatting away in Italian. Elida shelling beans from curly pink-mottled pods, Alec low to the table, drawing into a copybook. Behind them a young girl bent over a trough-like sink is belligerently scrubbing pots.

  He jumps up when he sees her, making Bella feel she should rise to the occasion, and so, adapting a tone from a long-ago teacher that she can only hope sounds convincing, she proceeds: 'Alec? I thought we agreed to meet after breakfast?'

  'Yes, Signora.' He pushes his chair away with the back of his legs. Face soft and red, eye evasive, he stretches over and closes the cover of his book, then starts to vigorously scratch the back of his head.

  Elida, as if she too is being scolded, rises and, taking the bowl of beans from the table, moves out of the kitchen towards the pantry, tipping the girl at the sink with her elbow as she passes. The girl starts, gives a little grunt, then, pressing her wet hands down the front of her greasy pinny, slips out after Elida.

  'Well, Alec – what have you to say for yourself?'

  'After breakfast I play tennis.'

  'Tennis?'

  'Yes, Signora. I have a lesson with the tennis coach but sometimes in the afternoon I play with the Maestro.'

  'I waited for you all morning, Alec.'

  'Yes, Signora.'

  Bella is aware of Elida and the girl cowering in the p
antry. She can hear a wet recurrent sniff from the girl's nose and the occasional furtive ping of a bean dropping into the bowl.

  'Come with me please, Alec. We need to speak about this.' He follows her into the hall. 'What time do you finish tennis?'

  'At eleven.'

  'Very well. I want you in future to come to me straight after tennis. Shall we say half past eleven?'

  'Yes, Signora.'

  'Good.'

  'Except.'

  'Except what, Alec?'

  'I don't arrive home till midday.'

  'All right, midday then – is that agreed?'

  'Yes, Signora. But—'

  'But what?'

  'Lunch is at midday.'

  'Oh yes, of course. Well after lunch then.'

  'Yes, Signora. But after lunch I have to rest.'

  'To rest?'

  'Yes, all children in Italy have a rest in the afternoon. And because I have asthma Mamma says I must never forget it. Or I could die at once.'

  'At once? Well, we certainly wouldn't want that. And what time do you finish your rest?'

  'At half past three.'

  'In fact you should be probably having it now this minute?'

  'Yes, Signora.'

  'This afternoon, at half past three, the moment your rest is over, I want to see you in the library. Do you understand me?'

  'Yes, Signora. But I have to ask Maestro Edward.'

  'Alec, we must fit our lessons in. That's why I am here.'

  'I have to ask Maestro Edward.'

  'Why?'

  'Because we have piano lessons.'

  'Every day?'

  'Always. After my rest.'

  'Well, when do you have your other classes – you know, arithmetic, that sort of thing?'

  'It depends.'

  'On what does it depend, Alec?'

  'When the private tutor, he can come.'

  Bella walks away from him across the hall to the open front door. She stays for a moment looking out into the afternoon silence through a gauze of yellow heat. 'When does he come, this private tutor?'

  'It depends, Signora.'

  'On what, Alec?'

  'If he is busy in the public school or with the other private pupils.'

  'Other private pupils?'

  'In Italy there are many private pupils.'

  'They don't go to school?'

  'Only for exams and later to look for the results on the wall to see if they are promoted to the next class.'

  'I see. Well, what does he teach you, this tutor?'

  'English and classics and history and geography and arithmetic and military and—'

  'I'll just have to have a word with him then – what's his name?'

  'He doesn't speak English, Signora.'

  'I thought you just said he teaches you English?' she says, coming back to Alec who is standing like a little statue at the bottom of the stairs.

  'Yes, but he doesn't speak it.'

  'Well how? Oh never mind. Look, I want you to come to me straight after piano this afternoon. I'll speak to Maestro Edward. We must set out a timetable. Do you know what a timetable is, Alec?'

  He mulls this over for a moment. 'I know what a table is. And I know what time is.'

  'Are you making fun of me, Alec?' she asks, rather hoping he is.

  'No, Signora,' he says and begins scratching his head again.

  'Un orario.'

  'Yes, that means a timetable, definitely,' he agrees.

  'You better run along now and have your rest. Go on. Oh! I almost forgot, I have something for you from Sicily.'

  'You brought me something?' he asks, his eyes brightening and making her regret that she hadn't thought to bring some little toy or trinket.

  'I'm afraid it's not from me. It's from the housekeeper, in Sicily.'

  Suddenly he is a different child, hopping on and off the first stair, face flushed and urgent, voice aching with the sort of emotion that could easily turn to tears. 'Nollie? Nollie sent me something? My nature books! Is it? Is it?'

  'Well, it certainly feels like notebooks. I didn't open it of course, but—'

  'Did she show them to Papa? Did he write something in? Did he? Did he?'

  'I don't know, Alec. She didn't say.'

  'How many did she send for me? I will need many for here, for all the different things in Bordighera to draw for my Papa.'

  'Calm down, Alec. Why don't we go up to the library and open your parcel and see?'

  'But I must have more crayons, Signora. Because I have to fill the book with pictures for Papa. And pencils for writing the informations. The crayons now are not good, Signora. Only this size.' He makes a pinch of his fingers and, bringing them close to his eyes, squints.

  'That small? Oh dear,' Bella tuts.

  'The green is no more. And no black left in the box because when you colour the palm trees mostly is green and black and some brown but I have a little brown left because I yellowed the sand. But then I need more yellow because sometimes the sky—'

  'Alec, Alec? Stop – don't worry. We'll get your new crayons for you. We'll get a whole new box of them just to be on the safe side. You can show me where to go. We can go together. Would that be a good idea?'

  He nods a few times, smiling into her eyes in a way that makes her think: I have you now, my boy.

  As they start up the stairs, she holds out her hand for his. He turns his face away, shakes his head fiercely and, placing one hand on the banister, stuffs the other into his pocket.

  Then Edward.

  Alec sees him first, dropping his head back to look up through the stairwell, roaring out at the top of his voice, 'Maestro! Maestro! Nollie is sent the books. She is sent them. You are right.'

  Bella looks up and there is Edward, leaning over a banister at the top of the house. 'Good news. Glad to hear it. But, Nollie has sent them. Nollie has.' He casts down a friendly half nod, a sort of a wave. 'And you must be Miss Stuart – shall I come down or are you—?'

  'We're on our way up, actually.'

  She waits on the return outside the library, Edward coming down the top flight of stairs, Alec charging up to meet him halfway, ranting away about Nollie and his crayons and his parcel from Sicily. Edward takes the stairs slowly, pausing to make an occasional curt remark over the din. 'That's quite enough now. Control yourself, there's a good chap. We are none of us deaf, if you don't mind.' He has a clipped English accent.

  She tries not to look at him until he is standing in front of her offering his smooth long-fingered hand. Fortyish, she thinks. Maybe a bit younger. A little aloof. Stern. Perhaps even cold. A bit of a martinet maybe. Attractive enough – which might explain what the American cousins see in him. But not the child.

  'I was coming to look for you,' she says. 'We've been trying to sort out a timetable.'

  'I know you have, Miss Stuart. I couldn't help overhearing.'

  'We are having a little difficulty getting organized, I'm afraid.'

  'Just to say, Miss Stuart, what you've been told about the private tutor is true – not a word of English, never turns up anyway and really is a most terrible teacher when he does. I believe the Signora is hoping you'll be his replacement? I'm to arrange it, books, curriculum and so on – that's if you don't mind – he needs to pass exams in October, otherwise he won't be promoted. He has just failed his June exams, and rather spectacularly at that.'

  'I see.'

  'The system is a little complicated for private pupils but you'll get the hang of it. Also there is a further curriculum which Signora Lami herself has devised, as she feels the state education lacks in some quarters. Now, as to what he says about the piano lessons – completely untrue. I'm much more flexible than he makes out, as is his tennis coach. It's the Italian in him, he can't help it. If he's not ducking and dodging work, he's blaming the other chap. He is your typical furbo – if you are familiar with the term?'

  'I'm not.'

  'Don't worry, you will be.'

  'I see.'


  'Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Stuart, I have something rather urgent I really must attend to. Nice to have met you.'

  'Yes,' Bella says. 'And you.'

  'Oh, and apologies for last night. Dinner – well, it was a misunderstanding on my part.'

  'Please, don't worry.'

  'However, we are available tonight. Half past seven suit?'

  'Yes, fine.'

  'I should warn you the Nelson sisters won't be joining us – a dance in San Remo, I believe. So there will only be myself and Alec for company, I'm afraid.'

  'Oh, I think I can bear that.'

  'Bear which, Miss Stuart – our company? Or the absence of the sisters?' She thinks there might be a glint in his eye, and almost laughs, but decides on second thoughts not to risk it.

  A few minutes later Bella, from a landing window at the opposite side of the house, spots Alec and Edward down in the garden. Alec, with the parcel under his arm, is tugging at Edward's jacket and appears to be earnestly explaining himself. Edward nods in response. So much for his urgent errand and so much for Alec's afternoon rest, she thinks. She is about to leave the window when Edward suddenly pounces on Alec and picks him up. Then he abruptly turns him upside down, letting him slip through his hands with a jolt before catching him by the ankles and starting back towards the house, the child dangling close to the ground, the parcel falling out of his grip onto the grass. She can see Alec's open mouth, his eyes disappear up into his forehead, his hair like a hedge falling off his crown. Bella opens the window slightly and moves to the side where they can't see her. She listens to Edward laughing down into his chest, Alec screaming with joy.

  'So you can't find any time for your lessons, eh?' Edward is shouting.

  'No!'

  'And you say you've looked everywhere, have turned the place upside down, in fact?'

  'Yes!'

  'So, now you're upside down yourself – what about that then?'

  'Nooo,' Alec roared.

  'Are you sure you've been looking properly?'

  'Yes!'

  'Have you looked in the grass?'

  'Yes! There's nothing.'

  'Not even an hour or two?'

  'No!'

  'A few minutes then?'

  She takes a peek out and now he is swinging the boy, like a pendulum.

  'Any luck yet?'

  'No! Maestro, noooo.'