‘Oh dear! Mummy’s little boy isn’t well at all, is he?’ she said, pausing at the sofa to tickle behind the dog’s left ear.
Carlo, who had stopped his licking, looked back at the Contessa with that specific look of intolerance, which said simply: What on earth are you on about? I have a small problem, that’s all.
‘We’ll have to have something looked at, won’t we?’
She gave Carlo another tickle and then walked to a sleek, modern-looking laptop that stood on a small, marble-topped, round table in the corner of the room. Luigi had bought the computer for her last Christmas and Tito Viale had wired it up after an extra rehearsal one Saturday afternoon. Luigi, who was a brilliant pathologist by career, might have known all about the wiring of the human body, but he was woefully ignorant as to the mysteries of electronics. Familiar only with the basic uses of such electronic equipment, he had tried to show his mother how to send emails, but to no avail. Although impressed with her son’s prowess in such matters, the Contessa could not be convinced that she would ever need to use such facilities. Instead, she had once again counted herself very fortunate that her little band of singers – her COGOL, her angels – contained splendidly fine people with a wide-ranging collection of skills, some of whom would know considerably more about computers than she, herself, was ever likely to know.
Tito had tried to explain how the signal came into the apartment through a satellite dish, mounted discreetly on the side of the chimney. The well-meant attempt at broadening her understanding of the twenty-first century had been a total flop as, like Luigi’s attempted explanation about emails, she had understood practically nothing of what Tito said. In fact, Tito had been obliged to revise his approach and had confined himself to showing her how to switch the thing on and off and which icon on the desktop she had to click to access BBC News 24 or BBC Radio 3 and Classic FM.
It’s marvellous, when you think of what’s going on inside of this thing. That had been her reaction as she watched the screen glow and the image of her desktop fade up and into life for the first time. Tito had also borrowed an old photograph of the Contessa’s, which he had scanned onto a memory stick and which now resided proudly as her desktop background image. He had tried to explain how he had used a scanner to copy the picture, but she had thought that was what Luigi sometimes used in his work up at the hospital to see the inside of bodies, which didn’t make much sense to her at all. The modern world could be so uncomfortably confusing. The image was an old faded photograph of the Count, taken just before the war, during happy days at the Royal Academy of Music in London. He was standing at the head of a phalanx of students, who were grouped around a large grand piano. Seated behind the keyboard was a young girl of, perhaps, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Penelope Strachan was her name and she was an outstanding student pianist.
‘This is the Six O’clock News,’ said the voice of the BBC newsreader.
And it will be the usual round of depressing revelations, contemplated the Contessa as she walked back towards her chair, patting Carlo once again as she passed the sofa. As she sat down, she drew a footstool nearer to her and rested her feet on it. Her prediction about the contents of the news had not been far off the mark, as one item after another reported doom, gloom, corruption or outright mayhem. As she sat in the gently lit room listening to the news (she hardly ever watched the pictures on the laptop’s screen, as she thought that they flickered too much and gave her a headache), she felt her eyes grow heavier and heavier; she had not had her afternoon nap and now felt that she was paying for failing to recharge her batteries.
‘…main line and Eurostar trains are worst affected. It is not clear how long it will be before the Eurostar service returns to normal. This will depend on how long it is before the damaged length of track is repaired. A company official said that further breakdowns could not be ruled out, given the age of some of the signalling equipment and track. Questions have been raised in Parliament about this accident. Passengers planning to travel to France should ma…’
The Contessa’s eyes became even heavier. Carlo had started to snore softly.
‘…it is anticipated that the worst passenger congestion will be at Waterloo Station.’
The news changed to another item, but the Contessa was no longer listening…
‘There you are dearie. That’ll be tuppence, please.’ The severe-looking waitress in the tearoom on Waterloo Station stood behind the counter holding out her hand for the required payment.
‘Oh … yes … right. I’ll just get my purse out and …’
In the sudden confusion that resulted from changing bags and raincoat from one hand to another, the bulging leather bag fell to the floor with a dull thump, spilling its contents all over the floor at the young woman’s feet.
‘Oh dear, dearie,’ offered the waitress dispassionately. There was a war on and she had seen far worse over the last couple of years than this gangling, clumsy girl. ‘That’s a bit of a pickle, isn’t it? That’ll be tuppence,’ she repeated, her voice carrying a steely edge as she eyed the queue that was building up.
‘Yes, I’ll just get my purse out… It’s in my coat pocket… No, it’s in my bag … I think.’
The waitress stared at the younger woman with something bordering on thinly disguised contempt. She reached up and adjusted the white, triangular cloth she wore on her head, the two ends of which were tied neatly into a knot just above her forehead. She craned forward slightly to see what it was that had fallen out of the case.
‘Them’s funny books, dearie.’
She was looking at the pile of books on the floor, several of which had fallen open to reveal pages of music. Some were manuscript sheets, on which music notes had been written in black ink in a very neat, flowing hand; some were printed scores and some were music for piano.
‘Yes, they’re music books. I’m a student at the Royal Academy,’ replied the young woman as she bent down to collect the books and replace them in her music bag.
‘Oh yes?’ replied the waitress, folding her arms across her chest, putting her head to one side and trying to adopt a superior expression. ‘Royal Academy, is it? And them’s music books … with all them dots and things?’
The young woman nodded up at her. ‘Yes, I play the piano and this is the music I have to prepare over the holiday … at home.’
With the help of the man behind her, most of the books and manuscript sheets had been quickly returned to the secure captivity of the music bag. Only the score for Lucia di Lammermoor, which had fallen open at the beginning of the famous sextet, still lay on the floor awaiting recovery.
‘Thank you ever so much,’ said the young woman as she stood up again.
The young man behind her, who was dressed in army uniform, smiled and nodded his head.
‘Right then … tuppence you said, wasn’t it?’ she said, holding out two copper pennies.
She had found her purse at the bottom of the music bag which, together with the coat, was now securely held in check under her left arm, leaving her right hand free to proffer the two coins.
High up on the wall behind the waitress was a large poster issued by the War Ministry. LET US GO FORWARD TOGETHER, it proclaimed, repeating Winston Churchill’s recent exhortation to the war-weary British public. From the look on the waitress’s face, it seemed to be precisely what she was about to do. She saw herself as a guardian of state security and was prepared to report anything unusual that came within her sights in order to help Mr Churchill win the war. The waitress took the money and stared long and hard at the fresh young face, as if she was trying to impress the features indelibly into her memory. She had heard about suspicious happenings before. The war gave rise to all sorts of unusual stories and rumours. The lines and dots on those pages, at least the ones she had seen before they had been hastily retrieved could be more than just music. What if they were some sort of secret code? Music books, indeed! If this slip of a girl turns out to be an enemy agent, thought the wai
tress, I need to be able to identify her to the authorities. Winston would expect nothing less of me. We all have to do our patriotic duty. ‘Ta, I’m sure,’ the waitress grunted, her gaze never wavering from the face of her customer. Even after the young woman had picked up her cup of tea and turned away from the counter, she stared after her, wondering…
The tearoom was crowded, almost drowned out under a sea of khaki and blue. At some tables, couples sat talking or sat in tearful silence. Soon they would make their farewells amongst clouds of steam and the desperate noise of departure; farewells in a war that would separate husbands and wives, mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, perhaps for ever. At other tables, groups of service men and women sat smoking, chatting loudly, playing cards or just staring pensively ahead. The odd one here and there was writing a letter or reading one, recently received.
Balancing the cup of tea, the music bag and her coat, the young woman traversed almost the entire length of the large, crowded room, before she caught sight of a man who was making ready to leave his seat at one of the two-seater tables. Several of these lined the walls of the furthest perimeter of the room and because of their position, were not as well lit as the mass of tables filling the main seating area. For an instant it occurred to her to speculate as to where the young man might be going. He wore pilot’s wings on his Royal Air Force uniform and was probably not much older than she was. He looked so handsome in his uniform – they all did. The compassion inside her wanted to ask him where he was going and to wish him luck and for him to have a safe journey, but it could not be done. During the war, thousands of people moved about constantly. Posters and propaganda films at the cinema warned everyone about the folly of speculation and careless talk. After nearly two years of grim conflict, it seemed to have become second nature to most people not to do either.
‘Are you off?’ she asked brightly and with an encouraging smile.
‘Afraid so, dear lady,’ he replied, flashing a friendly smile in return. ‘Can’t stop. I’ve finished with this, by the way. You’re quite welcome to it,’ he said, offering her a folded copy of that morning’s The Times newspaper.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she replied, suddenly struck by the realisation that she had no hands free with which to accept his generosity.
‘Don’t mention it. Here, I’ll put it on the table for you.’
A couple of minutes later, once she had stowed the music bag and her folded coat between the wall and her chair, she picked up the cup and took a mouthful of tea. There was no sugar – again – but she had grown used to not putting it in her tea and now she hardly missed the comforting sweetness. She replaced the cup in its saucer and picked up the still-folded newspaper. It was only then that she became really aware of the huddled form seated on the chair opposite her. It was a young woman, obviously slightly built, who had slumped down so low in the chair that she resembled nothing more than a bundle of clothes. She sat staring blankly at the empty cup in her lap. She held it in both of her hands, as if to hide the fact that it was empty. People became very heated when chairs were not vacated as soon as anything purchased at the counter had been consumed. This woman’s cup had not held anything for some time and she was lucky not to have been evicted from the chair.
‘Oh, excuse me. I didn’t really notice you sitting there,’ said the young woman with the music bag. It sounded ridiculous, but in the crush of the crowded room, it was the truth. The other woman said nothing. ‘The news is getting a little better, isn’t it?’ Still, there was no response. She tried for a third time. ‘Do you have long to wait for your train? I’ve got about forty minutes –’
‘I’ll not be going anywhere,’ replied the other woman, suddenly interrupting in a strong Irish accent, ‘and I’ll not be going back there neither, so I won’t.’
‘Oh, I see,’ replied the young woman, not quite sure that she had fully understood what the other had said, ‘and where would that be … the place you’re not going back to?’
‘Carlow, I’ll not be going back … not now.’
‘Is Carlow near London?’
‘Near London? Saints preserve us, no! ’Tis in County Carlow. That much they taught us in the convent.’ There was no humour in the voice, only a heaviness, which indicated a serious internal struggle for a future direction. ‘On the other side of the water … in Éire.’ She fell silent once more.
‘I’m Penelope,’ said the woman with the music bag. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, ‘Penelope Strachan. I’m studying music.’
For a few seconds there was no response from the other woman. She had a shock of thick auburn hair, which she had crammed into a cheap hat, the likes of which could be bought anywhere for no more than a couple of shillings. In fact, the more Penelope looked at her, the more it became apparent that the rest of her clothing was also far from new. She had the look of the poor about her.
‘Elzeebit,’ said the Irish girl eventually, almost reluctant to give anything away.
‘Pardon?’ asked Penelope.
‘Elzeebit,’ she repeated, slightly louder than before.
‘Is that a place near … er … Carlow?’ asked Penelope, taking another mouthful of her tea, which was now barely lukewarm.
‘No! ’Tis me own name, to be sure. ELZEEBIT, like the princess.’
‘Oh, you mean Elizabeth,’ said Penelope, laughing softly.
‘That’s what I’m telling you. ’Tis Elzeebit, Elzeebit McGraunch.’
Having decided to reveal her identity, it was as if a barrier had been lifted from her shoulders. Within a few minutes, she had told Penelope that she had been sent across from the convent near Carlow to a good position as maid to a wealthy Catholic family in Liverpool. The nuns had arranged it all and, despite her initial misgivings, she had quickly adapted to her new life, free from the shackles of the convent school back in Carlow. That had been three years ago, on her fifteenth birthday. Then things had started to go wrong. Her employer, a highly respected businessman, had suddenly taken more than just a passing interest in her and had gradually become more assertive in his advances. His wife had noticed and quite often the two of them could be heard arguing violently. Apparently, Elizabeth had not been the first. Out of the blue, the mistress had then announced that she would be visiting London and that Elizabeth was to accompany her. On the platform of Liverpool Street Station, the young girl had been given two ten shilling notes, absolved of any guilt concerning the master’s behaviour and then abandoned, as her now former mistress prepared to catch the next train back to Liverpool.
‘This has happened before,’ she had said, staring Elizabeth straight in the eyes, ‘and I know of no other way to resolve things. We do not want any breath of scandal and if I were to ask the nuns to take you back or move you, there would be embarrassing and awkward questions. You’re a good worker, Elizabeth, and this way at least I can give you the chance of starting again.’ The public-address system suddenly announced the departure of the Liverpool train. ‘Now I must go. I do not blame you. God go with you,’ she had said. Then she was gone.
Penelope sat dumbfounded, staring in dis belief.
‘God…! GOD? What had he to do with it all is what I’m after asking?’ There was real bitterness in her voice. The fingers clenched the cup even tighter than before.
‘Then what did you do?’ asked Penelope.
‘Do? ’Tis like dropping a tadpole in the mighty ocean. Do? I don’t know what to do, other than move from station to station; at least you can eat and drink there and they have the faculties.’ Her voice had risen in its intensity of bitter realization to the point where others at the nearby tables were casting furtive glances in their direction. Elizabeth McGraunch lowered her head and stared back from beneath hooded eyes.
‘The what?’ Penelope asked.
‘You know; the…’ she made the action of flushing a lavatory chain.
‘Oh … I see. You mean facilities.’
Elizabeth did not respond. Her features ha
d become very set, like one of the wax figures Penelope had seen years ago on a trip to Madame Tussauds.
‘I don’t know where I am or what ’tis I should be doing,’ said Elizabeth, suddenly looking very fragile and helpless, ‘and there’s nobody I can ask for help.’
There was a slight pause, during which she looked Penelope in the face for the first time. It was then that Penelope suddenly realized that the girl must be of her own age, although she had a look of weariness about her.
‘But what about the Church? You said you came from a convent school. Can’t the Church help you?’
‘And send me back to himself in Liverpool? I’ll not be doing with the Church any more. They know how to look after themselves first, to be sure. Someone like me counts for little. Even less if ’tis I who is after being seen as a problem.’
‘But then what are you going to do?’
Elizabeth did not answer, but simply sat staring at Penelope with unblinking eyes.
Out in the cavernous hanger of Waterloo Station, announcements were being made about train departures. Time had passed very quickly and Penelope’s cup was now cold and empty.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to go and catch my train,’ she said, starting to retrieve her belongings, ‘but I’ll be back in a couple of weeks. As I said, I’m studying music … at the Royal Academy. You can come and visit me there when I return, if you like.’
Elizabeth made no response, but continued to stare hard at Penelope, who had started to look for something in her music bag.
‘Are you going, Miss?’ asked a masculine voice behind her. It was a sailor, his hat band bearing the anonymous letters HMS, instead of the name of his ship.
‘Er, yes I am … in a moment,’ replied Penelope, half turning to look at him. ‘I want to do this first,’ she said, turning back to face Elizabeth. ‘I made this to take on the train with me. It’s nothing special, I’m afraid, just a plain sandwich with the suggestion of some cheese; my ration ran out. You are very welcome to it,’ she said and put the little wrapped bundle on the table and pushed it towards the other woman. ‘Well, good luck. I hope to see you when I get back.’
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