Last Train from Liguria

by Christine Dwyer Hickey

  I hear a noise then, someone on the steps outside. The snip of the letterbox and a dry shower of falling letters. I sit up and remember.

  There was a letter. A couple of weeks after it had been decided to keep Nonna in Portrane. A letter from the matron of the perfect nursing home. No words of regret, no asking after her health. Just a reference to 'your grandmother's clothes and other personal items'. A simple request to remove her stuff, which, like herself, had obviously been getting in the way. It could be collected at my earliest convenience. Disgusted, I had torn the letter up in a temper and thrown it in the bin.

  A few minutes later and I am down the road in the Waterloo House. The artificial darkness of a morning pub. There's an open phone directory on one side of me, a vodka and tonic on the other, and I am speaking to the matron of the nursing home. She says she's sorry but the clothes have been given away some months ago. 'It was a question of space, Miss Moore, and we hadn't heard anything from yourself, so.'

  'I've been away, working in the States, I just forgot all about it.'

  'Yes, I understand. However—'

  'However, matron?'

  'Yes, there was a box of papers and a few other things – I'm just looking at a note of it here in the book we keep for unclaimed items – now, that would be up in the attic. If you could give me a few hours or better even a few days?'

  'I'll be there this afternoon,' I say.

  *

  By the time I reach St Ita's the hospital day is all but over. 'Oh God. You're really late today,' Thelma squeals as she opens the door to the ward.

  'I know. Had a few things to do first. No change I suppose?'

  'Never is. I'm off for a smoke – comin'?'

  'I'll follow you, Thelma,' I say, 'just want to say hello to herself.'

  'S.B. – wha'?' Thelma laughs softly as she always does since she first heard me call Nonna this name.

  'That's right, Sleeping Beauty.'

  It's not yet seven o'clock but the blinds are drawn in the ward, and the night light is on and someone down the far end of the room is quietly wailing for God.

  I take my seat. There's a new arrival in the next bed where Mrs Clarke used to be. I don't look at the face, but can tell it belongs to another mover and shaker; constant fingers plucking on the downturn of the sheet and feet hard at it under the bedspread.

  And there's Nonna, statue-still, out for the count, and not coming back to me anytime soon. I decide to go for it.

  'I'm not going to read to you today, Nonna, because I want to talk to you instead. I mean properly talk.'

  I take off my coat, fold it behind my chair and lean in: 'Listen, I've been thinking a lot about Pembroke Road lately. Actually, I've been over to see it, last week, and again today. And I noticed that you haven't rented out our old flat or done it up either. It hasn't been touched since you left it. Then it dawned on me, Nonna, that maybe you kept it like that, well – for me. In case I needed it or that. And I hope I'm right, Nonna, because I do. Need it, I mean. So.'

  I wait a moment or two, get up and rearrange the top of her locker, pour myself a glass of water and sit back down again.

  'You see the problem is, Nonna, because none of us know – not me, the doctors, God, probably not even yourself – how long you're going to stay in there, wherever you are, well, I've got to make the decision. And I've decided. Yes. I've definitely decided. That I'm going to sublet my place on North Great George's, maybe even sell it after a while, and move back into Pembroke Road. Until I can decide what to do with my life. I hope that's OK now with you. I don't want to be presumptuous and I'll have to take it that you don't mind. But. Well, I just need to do something. Put one leg over the fence, as you used to say. Hope the rest of me follows, eh?' I feel my throat tighten and so I drink more water and then slowly continue.

  'I think. I think it will make me better, if I live someplace else. I'm not sick or anything, not in the usual sense. But – I still need to get better. If I go home, Nonna – you know?' I'm crying a little now, and I can see the flinty glint of eyeball from the patient in the bed next door, watching me. I wipe my eyes with my hand and stand up.

  'By the way, Nonna, I collected a few things belonging to you today from that nursing home, remember that place? Now, I don't want you worrying. What I find, I find. I won't care or fuss about it. I promise. I won't think any less of you or anyone else. I'll let you know how I get on, eh, Nonna? I'll let you know that.'

  I put the glass back, take a baby brush out of the mouth of the locker, and fix Nonna's hair, which though thinning is still thick enough. In this light its colour is shocking white.

  God, that bloody smoking room. It's empty when I go in and gratefully I sit down. I choose a wooden stool, rather than one of those armchairs that start me scratching the minute I look at them. There's a coffee table with a selection of old Sunday supplements or out-of-date housewifey magazines, which used to amuse me, but which I no longer read since opening a page and finding a big lump of phlegm embedded into a knitting pattern. The cushions on the armchairs show bulges of orange foam through the flowery stretch-nylon covers. They have curved wooden arms with most of the varnish scraped off by names that have come and gone over the years: Pete. Jeannie. Mairead. Turlough. Milly. Aine. Jonathan. There is a heart carved into one, with 'I luv ?' written in it. A child of Prague with his young head on old shoulders stands on the window ledge. And there's a J.F. Kennedy plate on the wall that makes him look as if he has Down's Syndrome. The ashtray is stuffed with cigarette ends; more are spread over the upside-down lid of an old biscuit tin on the floor. It stinks in here; you could scrape the nicotine off the walls.

  I'm halfway through my cigarette and thinking about getting up to go when Thelma comes in carrying one of those lopsided trays made in the arts and craft class, with three mugs of tea on it, and one bun on a plate. The bun is for me. Thelma insists. She's already had four. But the staff nurse said it was all right. Mr Carroll will never eat them anyway and she doesn't want them left hanging around in case they bring in more mice.

  The owner of the third mug then struggles in behind Thelma. And I see it's Mona, the aptly named tea lady. Mona's son is collecting her after work and it's getting dark and looking like rain, so I take her offer of a lift as far as the bus stop in Portrane. Even the way she makes this offer sounds like a lament. Then she pulls a single cigarette out of her overall pocket, plumps it into shape and lights it up. And she's off: her feet are bleedin' killin' her, the neck as stiff as a board. Her next-door neighbour has cancer. 'Doesn't even smoke, I wouldn't mind.' Mona says this as if it's an unfair world that the neighbour has cancer and she hasn't – after all the trouble she's gone to puffing on her forty a day.

  Thelma tuts with sympathy and makes little heartfelt suggestions to ease Mona's hardships:

  'A hot-water bottle! I hear that's great for a sore neck.'

  'A basin of salty water – that's the man for the feet.'

  'Do you know now what you should do – put honey in your tea! You'll never feel tired again.'

  But Mona is not interested in Thelma or her prescriptions. 'Do you know what it is?' Mona says to me. 'There's days I do be that knackered I swear I could climb into bed with one of them loonies out there, and not care if I never get up out of it again.' She takes a pull of smoke, then darts a look at me. 'Oh God, sorry, love, I'm sorry. No offence.'

  'You're grand,' I say.

  'No change with your poor granny?' she asks me then, putting one cigarette out while accepting a fresh one from me.

  I shake my head.

  'God love her all the same. Doesn't be a peep out of her these days.'

  'Not a dickie bird!' Thelma confirms.

  'And she was a great one there for a while, yapping on like I don't know what – wasn't she, Thel?'

  'Oh yea.'

  'She'd be going goodo there before she'd the stroke.' She leans over, tips me on the arm, casting a vague wink and a twitch of her lips towards Thelma as if warning me t
o say nothing right now. 'That other business. I have to tell you, I thought that was a bloody disgrace. I mean how that happened, it's beyond the beyond. Do you know what I mean?'

  'Rabbitin' on,' Thelma says. 'So she was, S.B. Rabbitin.'

  'Ah no,' Mona says. 'Not always. Be fair now. You could have the odd conversation with her like. Sometimes she used to even speak Eyetalian.'

  'Yea?' I say.

  'Ask me how I know that, go on, ask me.'

  'How do you know that, Mona?'

  'Didn't I used to work in Macari's. The chipper on the Malahide Road?'

  'Right.'

  'She's not Eyetalian but – is she?'

  'No. She lived there for a while, when she was younger.'

  'Ahhhh, that explains it. Handy little number it was, working in the chipper. But me ankles like, with all that standing. And I usedn't be able to breathe, the steam and that you know, brings on me asthma.'

  'I can imagine.'

  Thelma touches the tray. 'You never ate your bun,' she says to me.

  'You know, I'm not really hungry, Thelma – would you like it?'

  'All right.'

  'Ah, ah, fatso,' Mona says. 'I thought you were cutting down? Ten Ton Tessie, if you don't start watching it, you. Do you hear me now?' Then she looks over at me again. 'Do you know what I often meant to ask you?'

  'What?'

  'Who's Alec?'

  'Alec?'

  'Is he your little brother?'

  'No. Why?'

  'Well, I reckoned he's a kid anyhow. She used to be on about him sometimes. You know the way they do. Askin' after people you wouldn't know. But you don't like to be ignoring them either and so you humour them along a bit.'

  'What sort of things would she say?'

  'Ah you know – just little bits of things while I'd be cleaning around the bed and that. Where's Alec? she might go. And then I might say, Ah, he'll be back now shortly in a minute. And then she'd say, Is he with Edward? And then I'd say, Do you know what? I think he is. Havin' a lesson? And then I'd say, Oh, he is. Piano or tennis? would be the next thing she'd want to know. And I'd say, God, I couldn't tell you that now but it'll be over soon enough anyhow. And she'd say, He won't do his algebra, do you know that? And I'd go, Isn't he the little divil not doin' his algebra? Wait'n I get him, I'll give him a good smack for himself I will. And she'd go, Ah no, you're not to smack him, you'll only hurt him. And I'd say, Ah of course I wouldn't smack him, I'm only jokin' you. He's too good to smack. And she'd say, He's a good boy. Then I'd say, Ah God he is, sure everyone knows that he's the best boy. And she be delighted with herself then and off she'd go back to sleep.'

  We say nothing then, waiting on Mona's son to arrive. Thelma spluttering away on her bun. Mona lighting another cigarette and smoking it as if it were her last.

  PART SEVEN

  Bella

  BORDIGHERA, 1938

  September

  BELLA COMES BACK THROUGH the garden and the overripe air that marks the start of an Indian summer. Through the open kitchen door there's a back view of Elida still preparing food, most of which will have to be thrown in the bin or hauled up to Sister Assumpta's orphanage fund. When Bella left earlier to have coffee with Edward, Elida had been squinting at small curls of pasta and stabbing them with something on the end of a pin. Now she is punching her fist into a large lump of dough.

  Bella considers leaving the coffee tray on the windowsill and sidling past, but knows Elida, with the eyes in the back of her head, will be certain to spot her. The kitchen so stifling, Bella stays in the doorway, where at least she can feel the air on her back.

  'Your letters,' Elida begins without turning around, 'I leave for you in the chair of the hall.'

  'Thanks. I got them. On the chair in the hall. I'm going out now, Elida.'

  'To where?'

  'The old town, see what's happened to Rosa – it's been almost a week. I'll give you a hand later. Cesare will be here at eleven anyhow and Edward will be down shortly to move the crib. By the way, he doesn't think there's a chance the Signora will make it today. Trains cancelled or late. Long delays all over the country, it seems. He's been complaining his morning papers haven't arrived.'

  'Is not your business to give me a hand.'

  'Oh, don't be so prim, Elida. You know I don't mind in the least.'

  'The Signora would not approve.'

  'Well, let's not tell her then.'

  'That Rosa,' Elida says. 'Unreliable. Lazy. What do you expect from Genoa?'

  Bella comes into the kitchen and puts the tray on the table. 'She's not from Genoa, Elida, her father is.'

  'Same thing.'

  'She could be ill.'

  'Why not send a message then?'

  'Maybe she has no one to send.'

  'She's has her five fat ugly sons.' Elida picks up the dough and slaps it like a face, from side to side, then drops it. 'I tell you what happen. More money what happen. Now her big shot son get for her the job.'

  'What job?'

  'Fascist uniform mistress.'

  'Hardly that! It's just a bit of mending and cleaning and it's never stopped her from coming to work before.'

  'They are all the same these Genovese – thinking only of this.' Elida lifts one hand, rubs her thumb into her first two fingers. 'Will you take the car?' she asks.

  'Not much point with all these parades, the roads will be impossible. And I'm fed up being stopped and questioned every five minutes.'

  'Is the fault of so many strangers in town.'

  'It's a holiday resort, Elida, there are always strangers in town.'

  'These are different strangers.'

  Bella goes to the drawer in the kitchen cupboard and begins searching through.

  'Will you be back for lunch?' Elida asks her after a few moments.

  'Doubt it. I've to collect Alec's new school blazer and I want to see if the bangle I bought for the Signora's new baby is back from the engraver's. Leah, it's a lovely name – don't you think?'

  'But not an Italian name.'

  'It's the Signora's name. Have you seen my purse, Elida?'

  'Top shelf, on the right, as always.'

  Bella finds her purse and stuffs it into her pocket.

  'I'll pick up Alec on the way back – he's hardly had a wink all night, thinking about the musical picnic today. The Almansi girls have tambourines and a recorder, he's brought his harmonica. They're calling themselves the Beach Blues Trio. God help any sun-worshippers. Anyway, I'm off. See you later, Elida.'

  Elida follows her out to the door, wiping her hands on her pinny. 'Will you go to the office of the Prefettura?'

  'If I've time, why?'

  'I see the letter.'

  'It's only a reminder to have my documents verified, nothing to worry about.'

  'I think.'

  'You think what, Elida?'

  'Nothing. But maybe speak to the Signora first.'

  'Why?'

  'The Prefettura, they don't just want to know about you. Also this house – who lives here, why, how long, this and that – you know? The Signora, she always change her mind so much. And better to wait until you have one story only.'

  'All right. A day or so won't make a difference. Anyway, I best get—'

  'Wait until later, please, Signora Bella, it's too hot for you now.'

  'Really, Elida you're in an odd mood today – what's the matter?'

  'Nothing, is so hot.'

  'Elida, I have just had coffee in the garden and believe me it's not half as hot outside there as it is in this kitchen. God – how can you breathe?'

  'Crazy heat for September,' Elida mournfully agrees.

  Elida walks with her out to the garden, her big face reddened with worry, heat and exertion. There are caps of flour dust on her elbow and nose, a pulp of tomato sauce under her heart, a stain of plum juice on her lips. She looks, as she always does when she comes out of the kitchen, as if she's coming away from a fight. She pushes her voice at Bella. 'I hope they don't
think they are coming here again.'

  'Who?'

  'The American misses – I see the letter.'

  'Well, of course you did! Don't worry, Elida. People are trying to get out of Europe, not into it.'

  'There's no rooms for them. With the Signora and the bambina and if she brings with her any of that Sicilian band of—'

  'I'm sure it will be just the baby.'

  'And the new husband, don't forget that one.'

  'He won't be arriving till next week. I told you this already. And Elida, we could stop calling him the new husband, his name is Signor Tassi – they have been married two years, you know.'

  'Un napoletano.' Elida closes her eyes and blows through her teeth. 'A woman who could have marry anyone. And what about that English housekeeper, her – I suppose she will arrive with her face on her feet?'

  'My God, Elida, is there anyone you like?'

  'I like you, Signora,' Elida says, patting her on the cheek.

  Bella moves towards the gate. 'Please stop worrying. And by the way, the letter from America? It's from Grace wondering if we've heard anything from Amelia. She's in Berlin it seems.'

  'Why?'

  'Who knows with Amelia? And before you ask – the other two letters? One is from my father telling me to come home at once – which I have no intention of doing, regardless of whether Hitler invades Czechoslovakia. The other is from the Signora postmarked three weeks ago so whatever it says will no longer matter.'

  'Your letters are your own private affairs, Signora.' Elida sniffs. 'And make sure you eat lunch.'

  'I will.'

  'Make sure you do. But not in La Marita. Those Venetians – they don't know how to cook. Only poison.'

  'Ciao, Elida.' But Elida is not finished yet. 'Signora Stuart?'

  Bella turns back.

  'Up there,' Elida says, pointing her finger towards the old city. 'Up there in the città alta, they wear each other's trousers.'