Safety and consolation closed him in and filled his heart more and more strongly as he drew nearer home, even as the familiar hills enclosed him, and already he was beginning to feel that he had never been away. Once San Angelo had been the dream, the unreal place. Now, it was Naylor’s Farm.
He took the road that led down again to the sea.
The hills here were lofty, with sometimes a shrine standing on the white grass of the parched summits or at the edge of shrivelled brown woods, but every foot of the lower slopes was crowded with ripe olive, wheat or vine, drinking their last nourishment from the sunlight before yielding their riches to Man; and so he walked downwards between vast, peaceful slopes of yellow and grey and blue-green, under the turquoise sky, towards the glittering sea. It was now noon, for he had started to walk at dawn, and the countryside was at its emptiest and almost silent, under the fierce sun, while the workers in the vineyards and fields ate their midday meal. He had undone his neat collar and put over his head his last remaining khaki handkerchief. As he gazed with half-shut eyes through the glare, he saw, standing motionless at the crossroads where the rough track led down through chestnut and acacia woods to San Angelo, something dark.
It was a small open cart, drawn by a donkey which (he saw as he came nearer) was skeleton-thin and hanging down its head as if asleep. Someone in black was sitting in the cart holding the reins, and all round the donkey’s head moved some small objects. He opened his eyes wider to see what they were. Children: yes, they were children. Whose could they be? and who were they waiting for? Him? He fancied he knew that cart and donkey. They were his uncle’s; he used them for carrying hay and wood and fish. But surely his old uncle had not come out in this heat to welcome him?
All at once the small figures became agitated, as if they had caught sight of him. He could see them pointing, and jumping about, and then the figure in the cart raised a stick and the donkey lifted its head and plodded forward. Down towards him it came, at a slow walk, and round it danced the children. They were singing. He could hear their weak piping voices through the hot stillness, and now he could see that the woman in the cart wore a black dress with a white collar. His heart began to beat fast. She must be Maria. And the cart drew steadily nearer.
But he felt no desire to run to meet it. Everything was so quiet; the sky, the glittering sea filling the little bay, the blue leaves cascading down below the cloudlike olive groves, all were motionless, and not even the cicada cried. Only the donkey’s hoofs rose and fell in the dust and the children’s weak voices wavered off into silence as the cart came near. He stood still and let his bundle slide to the ground, and waited.
But this was not Maria! Sick disappointment overcame him. This girl was so thin that she looked quite old, and her great eyes started, and short locks of silky hair stood out stiffly around her head. She had not Maria’s dimples, and she was hardly pretty at all. Yet she was looking at him shyly and then she smiled, and he saw that she was Maria. But what had she done to herself? And whose children were these? How they stared!
Suddenly a long ragged boy of twelve or so shouted as if he could keep quiet no longer—“Uncle Fabrio!” and ran forward, but when he was almost near enough to touch Fabrio he stopped, staring doubtfully. “Uncle Fabrio, is it thou?” he asked, more quietly. “I am Cesare.”
He saw a sturdy man dressed in brown, with chestnut hair cut close and smoothly combed; he had no hollows in his cheeks, and he wore splendid boots with soles an inch thick. His eyes were very blue and he was very clean. What an uncle to welcome home from the war! Cesare was a little afraid, but he was also proud.
But Maria was only afraid, for she had seen, from her very first glimpse of him, that he was much handsomer and sterner and much more of a man than the boy Fabrio whom she remembered.
Her hair! What would he say about her hair?
Three days ago, an hour after his letter came, she had left her work in the cottage and the field half-done and set out to walk, as fast as she could for the trembling of her legs with excitement and hunger, to Santa Margherita. There she had sold her curling waist-length hair to her former employer, who was an agent for such sales on behalf of a Genoese firm, for the equivalent of five English pounds. (Yes, the girls were getting such prices now for their hair, double the price offered before the war.)
The money would buy her wedding clothes. She had had nothing—no money, no clothes—nothing to offer Fabrio but herself, and she could not bear it. There had always been girls after Fabrio! and most of them had had more clothes and better homes than she. For no other reason would she have parted with her hair, which had been so silky and glittering, lifting itself about her face with its own soft, healthy life like the familiar spirit of her girlhood. Now some smart lady in Genoa or Milan, perhaps even in Rome itself (Maria had seen pictures of such ladies in the fashion papers at the hairdresser’s shop) would wear it twisted in a false braid upon her shameless head. Her hair, her very own hair that had always been with her since she was little! It made Maria so sad to think of it. And now she was frightened as well. She smoothed her new black dress as if to comfort herself by its touch, but as the cart paused beside Fabrio she was so frightened that she burst out loudly:
“Oh Fabrio, it is thou! After all this long, long time! Dost thou know me? I am—it is Maria! All the others at thy home are busy with the harvest, so I brought the children to meet thee. Art thou hungry? Thou must be hungry, after thy long journey. There is food for thee at thy home and I can stay a little while. That is Cesare, and here is Baldassare and Elena and Giulia—come here, little one—” and now Fabrio saw black eyes looking languidly at him over the top of an old black shawl on the floor of the cart, and a thumb thrust into a small wet mouth—“it is thy uncle, Fabrio!”
Her voice was softer than he remembered. It delighted him. So many years had gone by, such a long bad dream, since he had heard a beloved woman chattering in Italian! He was not at all shy of her; he went up to the cart and put his hands round her waist (how thin she was! That would never do, for she had to bear many bambini) and lifted her right out of it with his great strength, and set her feet in their cheap white shoes down in the dust beside him, and surveyed her.
“What hast thou done to thy hair?” he exclaimed loudly, all the reserve and self-control that he had begun to learn from the English melting away under the fire of the black eyes and at the sound of the eager voices around him.
“She sold it!” shrilly cried three or four of the children. “To buy wedding clothes! Thou shouldst see them! Magnificent!”
Maria hung her head. “I had nothing. I was in rags,” she said. “Thou art not angry?” and she looked up at him.
“It will grow again!” cried Fabrio, and swept her (but gently, because she was so thin, poor Maria, and not strong or dimpled any more, and yet he loved her) into his arms. How soft she was, and her hair smelt of some beautiful scent! He eagerly kissed her, and she flung her arms about his neck and smiled up into his face, then turned her head to laugh at the circle of staring children. The black-eyed one in the cart whimpered in a suffering little way without moving, and two of the girls flew to her.
“She is ill,” said Elena shyly to Fabrio. “There is no milk,” and she shrugged her thin shoulders and rearranged the black shawl.
“I will work for you all, and then there will be money to buy milk on the Black Market,” announced Fabrio, holding Maria more tightly and addressing her as much as the open-mouthed children. Now he was glad that he had been away for six years, and had not starved with the rest at home. He would save them. He had strength and youth and love: he even had money. He had everything. He kissed Maria again and motioned the children onwards. Cesare climbed into the driver’s seat and some of the others got into the cart behind him, Elena gathering up little Giulia on to her lap. Cesare whipped the donkey, which awoke with a start.
“Go home and tell them that I am coming,” commanded Fabrio. “I have cioccolata, and later thou shalt have som
e——”
“Cioccolata! Cioccolata!” they cried. The donkey set off at a trot, and Maria cried fearfully after them, “Elena! Take care of Giulia!”
“I have her safe—do not be afraid, Maria!” and Elena drew closer the stifling folds of the shawl. The boys ran on beside the cart shouting, “Cioccolata!” and singing.
Maria was so dizzy with hunger and happiness that she was aware of nothing but the sun’s heat striking down upon her skull and the supporting comfort of Fabrio’s iron arm about her waist. She allowed herself to be half-led, half-dragged, onwards in silence. Presently she shut her eyes. She had almost lost the sense of where she was, but in a moment something light and cool dropped upon her head and the pain of the sun’s rays lessened. He was saying something, but she could not quite hear what. It did not matter: the tone was loving. She opened her eyes and saw that his own head was bare: he had given her his khaki handkerchief. His own handkerchief, brought home from the war! Tears of joy came up into her eyes, and then she heard, soaring out into the warm air, a beautiful, joyful sound. She had not heard it for six anguished years. It was the song of the fishermen, coming home into San Angelo.
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Copyright © Stella Gibbons 1950
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First published in Great Britain by Longmans, Green & Co. Ltd in 1950
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The Matchmaker Page 43