Autumn Leaves

by Tessa Lunney

  “So, it’s Uncle Charlie who is the problem, is it? Our own flesh and blood?” David read through the letter again. The car flashed its lights.

  “Davy, we must admit defeat.”

  “Yes, Charlie bloody well is the problem.”

  “Come on, Davy, Rome’s been here a couple of thousand years, it’ll wait a bit longer for us.” The car was only a few meters away. I could see Tinker behind the wheel.

  “Impertinence! Parliament telling us which members of our family we may and may not speak to!”

  “He did fight for Cousin Willy, Davy… not really that much of an ask, that the English princes remain patriotic and all that.”

  Tinker got out of the car and walked nonchalantly toward us. George saw us watching and turned.

  “Hello,” he said. “Are you nanny?”

  Tinker nodded. “Your Royal Highness.”

  “Very well. I say, you don’t happen to have a drink in the car, do you? Only having begun…” George chatted to Tinker as he climbed in the car. Bertie followed, making sure George got in and stayed in. The Prince of Wales glared, fumed, then turned on his heels and headed to the front of the hotel. Tom raised his eyebrows, then he set off with Fry at a run. The prince had no chance. They caught up to him in moments, both of them so tall, they took the prince by the elbows and marched him to the car, the prince protesting as much as his dignity would allow. Fry bundled him in the backseat like he was a criminal in a police car, locking the door as he did so. Fry nodded to me and they set off, the car squealing and growling.

  “I can’t believe he actually made a run for it,” said Tom.

  “I think Fry was hoping he wouldn’t have to touch him, you know, royal protocol and all that. But it seems that abductions are abductions, whoever you are.”

  “What was that bit of paper Fry had?”

  “I didn’t see, but it had an official header. Something official?”

  “Some spy you are.” Tom grinned.

  I could hear Italian in snatches of song. I could smell garlic and tomato alongside the petrol and cigarette smoke. I heard German spoken with force and saw Charlie rush around the corner with Phillip behind him.

  “Where are they?” Charlie was red in the face.

  “Who, Your Grace?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me!” His eyes roamed the square. “The boys! David and George—where are they?”

  “There was a fire alarm… I assume they went with the others.”

  “The others said they went off with you.”

  “Yes, those opera singers…” Phillip was breathless.

  “Oh no,” I said. “They must be…”

  “Listen,” Charlie grabbed my arm. “You will take me to my young cousins or—”

  “I don’t think so, mate.” Tom moved in front of Charlie, half a foot taller and half a foot broader, giving me time to disentangle myself. “If Miss Button says she doesn’t know, then she doesn’t know.”

  “Don’t you know who I am!”

  “No, and I don’t care.”

  “Well, you should.” Charlie reached around his waistband and pulled out a revolver, pointing it at Tom. All the sounds in the square disappeared. I was more shocked than scared that he had actually pulled out a gun in the street like a common thug. Tom stood straight, Bertie froze, Phillip stood panting. I kicked myself that I had left my own little pistol in our hotel room.

  “Now.” Charlie turned to me, the gun still on Tom. “You will take me to my young cousins.”

  “Do you have a car?” I asked.

  “Why would we need a car?”

  “To chase them down, of course.”

  “Phillip.” Charlie didn’t take his eyes off me. “Hail a taxi.”

  Phillip ran to the other side of the square. We all waited, watching Phillip out of the corner of our eyes as he ran to the café and asked the waiter to order a cab. I had no intention of getting in any such vehicle with Charlie and his gun. I didn’t dare look at either Tom or Bertie, but I doubted they would let Charlie get that far either.

  “Where do we direct the taxi?” Charlie’s plummy tones were chilling. “The station is only two streets away.”

  “And the train doesn’t leave until tomorrow, and trains are notoriously insecure—too many doors to escape from.” I did my best to sound nonchalant. “No, the princes are being driven home.”

  “And we’re expected to take a taxi back to London?”

  “I expect nothing of the sort. I expected you to have a car.”

  “Carl!” Phillip called; the taxi had arrived. Charlie pulled me into a kind of embrace so he could stick the gun into my ribs as we walked toward the cab. I didn’t need to pretend to find it hard to walk, the gun in my side did that for me. I could see Maisie creep around the corner of the hotel as we moved toward the car. Our progress was slow as I limped with the pain of the gun.

  “Hurry up.” Charlie spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Impossible with that extra rib you’ve given me.”

  He would shoot me; I could feel his resolve in his grip around my body, strong enough to drag me into the car if necessary. Phillip looked frightened, awaiting orders by the passenger door. As we got to the cab, Charlie motioned for him to go around the other side. I cursed inwardly; I had been hoping to get away by jumping across the backseat and out the road-side door, but that would now be impossible. I didn’t dare turn my head to see what Tom, Bertie, and Maisie were doing, to alert Charlie to their plans, if they had any, or to stop looking where I was going. The irony of being abducted in revenge for abducting the princes was perhaps the only thing that stopped me from being overwhelmed by panic. The only thing I knew was that I absolutely could not get in that taxi. If I did, I doubted I would ever get out alive.

  Three more steps; here was the curb.

  “Get in.” Charlie growled in my ear in a parody of a lover’s whisper. I could feel the gun bruising me. I turned to his face, ready to do anything, to bite him if necessary, my body tense as I resisted his push to get me into the cab—

  I heard thudded footfalls. I saw Maisie appear beside us and I brought my knee up to Charlie’s groin as hard as I could. Charlie groaned and Maisie whacked him with an empty grappa bottle. Another set of hands—Tom’s—reached in and grabbed the gun as it fired into the cobbles, burning his hands and grazing my calf. I stumbled, it stung like first heartbreak, and Tom dropped the gun. I lunged for it, as did Charlie, but Maisie hit him with the bottle again, bringing the duke to the ground. Bertie had run to the taxi to get Phillip, but at the sound of the gunshot the taxi driver had sped away, with Phillip inside the cab, the door open and swinging as the cab rounded the corner. Bertie ran after them, correctly guessing that Phillip would get out of the cab as soon as possible and run back to help Charlie. But Charlie was on the ground, being sat on by Maisie and Tom, his arms twisted around his back. Phillip held his hands up as Bertie approached him, unarmed and unresisting.

  “Let me see how Carl is.” Phillip’s voice was wheedling, especially compared to the coarse curses and grunts coming from Charlie.

  “Not if you begged me,” said Bertie, “though you’re welcome to try.”

  “Please,” said Phillip. “He’s a duke. This is most undignified…”

  “A duke who shot at us!” yelled Tom.

  “How dare you! How dare you!” Charlie’s curses had deteriorated to outraged claims about his dignity. I unloaded the gun and tipped the bullets into the gutter.

  “Get a cab, Bertie. These men are leaving us.”

  “Never! Never! You will pay for this! The Leader will get you for this!” Charlie’s curses went on and on. Phillip stood trembling and bewildered, as Bertie took him firmly by the arm and watched for a cab.

  “Get him up or the cab will never stop for us,” I said. Tom nodded to Maisie. They both took Charlie’s arms and hauled him to his feet. Charlie was woozy, still cursing even though his knees frequently gave way. Tom had somehow lost a shoe and ac
ting the strong man in his socks made the scene almost a joke. His bright red palms were not a joke though, nor was the throbbing pain in my calf. I didn’t dare move in case I found I couldn’t walk.

  The cab came; I heard Bertie give directions to the station that ran the intercity trains. Phillip got in meekly but Maisie had to give Charlie’s arm a little twist before he got in. His face was red with hate, glaring at us through the window, his head leaning against the seat, rubbing his shoulders as the taxi pulled away. They rounded the corner and we waited, a beat, then another.

  The mission was complete.

  “Have we done it?” Bertie asked.

  “We’ve done it.” The gun was suddenly almost too heavy to hold. In fact, I felt tired in every limb and had to close my eyes to stop my head from swimming.

  “Button.” I felt Tom beside me and I leant into him.

  “Katie, you’re bleeding.”

  I opened my eyes to see a small puddle of blood at my heel. Tom’s hands were glowing.

  “How much do they hurt, Tom?”

  “A bucket of ice water and a double vodka should let me sleep.”

  “I can arrange that.” Maisie went off to get the ice while Bertie took my arm. He stopped and turned. “We’re not going out, are we?”

  “I can’t, Tom can’t—”

  “I won’t,” called Maisie.

  “You can, Bertie, if you can find a sweet corner of this city. How’s your Italian?”

  Bertie grinned. “I left him in London.”

  51

  “aggravatin’ papa”

  The mission was over. I was too exhausted even to call Fox. Maisie tended my graze and gave detailed instructions to Bertie for Tom’s hands. My graze looked worse than it was; the bullet had broken the skin but not deeply. The red of my dress made the blood glisten like paint and my limp made my wound seem dramatic. Tom’s hands were rather worse than they looked, with stripes of burns from the gun barrel across his palms. It was all we could do to stop them blistering, sending up for new ice every hour until midnight, when the choice became either burnt hands or frostbite. Maisie wrapped Tom’s hands carefully. Then we crawled into bed and the others slept so soundly they barely stirred.

  I wish I could have said the same. My leg throbbed in waves. My heart couldn’t stop jumping, floundering around inside my ribcage even while my limbs were too heavy to move. Tom’s bed was on his side of the connected room, too far away to talk. I watched his shape in the darkness and I knew he was facing me. Was he awake, like me, still and watching? If Bertie and Maisie hadn’t been asleep, I think we would have… I don’t know, I couldn’t even think of chatting when I was so worn out. But I couldn’t turn away, I stared at his form every moment my eyes were open through the night. I didn’t remember going to sleep.

  But then it was morning, silvery light filled the room, it was damp-cold and overcast. The room smelt of spilled prosecco and cheap perfume. We had decided to watch the march before we headed back to Paris, to see what all the fuss was about. My graze was healing nicely already and no one would notice it under the trousers I had brought with me. I went downstairs to order us coffee and some more ice for Tom. I went downstairs to call Fox.

  “Vixen.” He didn’t say hello, of course, he’d been expecting my call.

  “I am pale for weariness.”

  “You find no object worth your constancy? I know you don’t wander companionless.”

  “That would mean I was a dying lady, led by the insane and feeble wanderings of my fading brain. I am the opposite of these things. No, I’m just pale for weariness.” I opened a new packet of cigarettes in Fox’s long pause. I caught the concierge looking at my trousers. No, it had been my limp, as he came out from behind the front desk with a little stool for me and an ashtray. It was so considerate that I had to look away, blinking at the green marble and brass fittings of the foyer.

  “This is half my gladness, Fox, this companionate weariness.”

  “Rarely rarely comest thou…”

  “Speaking of rare occurrences, have the two young princes left with a beaker of the warm south?”

  “Fry landed a few hours ago. Bad winds crossing the channel but no bodily harm done.”

  “I can’t say the same here. Tom had his hands singed.”

  “Are the Spanish Steps proving harmful once again?”

  “Harmful? Ah, you mean Keats?” Keats had died of tuberculosis here about a hundred years ago. “No, we’re suffering from bad dukes, not bad drains.”

  “We?” A little tension in his voice.

  “Just a scratch, though I don’t intend to come any closer to a bullet.”

  I thought I heard him murmur “bullet” but some hotel guests crossed the foyer just at that moment and I couldn’t be sure.

  “Cousin Charlie is quite the Berlin Bear. Did you know him?” Another long pause, as I expected. He would say nothing until I showed my hand. I had to hold my nerve. My smoky exhale looked endless in the mirrored mirrors.

  “You know, Fox, at military college? You’re the same vintage, aren’t you?”

  “I believe he was still in England when I was in Prussia.”

  “But your brother must know him. Or is your brother older?” I was being impertinent and, in that respect, this banter was dangerous. But his answer would tell me what I needed to know. If he wanted me in his life as more than an employee, he would talk about his family. If he saw me as just a sweet combination of toy and tool, he would not.

  “My brother is older. By six minutes.”

  A twin; my throat hurt, I felt choked. Not only were there two Foxes in the world, but this one, on the telephone, wanted me to know it. Only when he answered did I understand that this was the answer I dreaded. I couldn’t even smoke, my hands were shaking too much.

  “I haven’t seen my brother since… since before the war.” I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want any part of his family history. “He chose the losing side.”

  I couldn’t speak. Fox had just told me that he was German, that he still had family in Germany, that he had chosen to be British and all that went with it. He had admitted to going to military academy in Prussia, he admitted to being human and not a specter at the end of a telephone line. Information was power and he was giving me information. There had to be an ulterior motive; he would only give away power now to gain more power at some later date. My brain raced, trying to find a reason for him telling me about his brother, some reason that related to my work for him, but I kept stumbling over the idea that he wanted me in his life. I felt sick, my hangover amplified. Words withered in my mouth before I could give them breath.

  “I think you’ll like your payment.” His voice was quicksilver again; what had he heard in my silence? “Tailor will deliver it today, before you leave Rome.”

  “We’re watching the parade.” My voice shook, I couldn’t control it.

  “Oh, I don’t think today is going to be anything as neat as a parade, Vixen.” He hung up, leaving the operator to bark at me in Italian.

  52

  “march with me!”

  We didn’t need to find the march; the march found us. The tension in the air was palpable. We all felt it, like the night before a big push, like the vibrations of reconnaissance planes that would give away our position. People hurried, head down to their destination, they spoke in close groups of two or three, they looked over their shoulders at phantoms. No one smiled and certainly no one laughed. People at the café downstairs ate quickly and drank their coffee standing up. One or two tourists loitered, but they quickly hurried back inside, thinking that they didn’t like the overcast sky, or their throat hurt, or they felt unaccountably tired. Unlike yesterday, I did not see a single child. The hotel staff said nothing but Si and Non and hurried about their business. We sat at the café, ordering too many coffees and pastries, waiting for a break in the spotted rain to venture forth.

  Then, midmorning, the first Blackshirts filtered into the square. Their boots
were black, their trousers were black, their shirts were black and covered with medals. But it was their strut that pronounced them to be fascisti, squadristi, followers of Mussolini. They came in twos and threes until there was a steady stream, singing songs with a distinct military tone. To my eyes they all seemed short and pugnacious, like the photographs I had seen of Mussolini himself, but perhaps that was just the effect of standing next to slender Bertie and tall Tom. By the time there was a stream of black uniforms, women came out of the shops and leant over balconies, throwing flowers to the Blackshirts and yelling “Bravo!” and other Italian phrases I couldn’t understand. The streets around the square were soon stinking with trampled blooms.

  “Well,” said Maisie, “are we going to follow them, see what it’s all about?”

  “I think I must,” I said.

  “Then we all must,” said Tom.

  We followed the lines of men as they headed to the center of the city. None of us could speak Italian and the Blackshirts didn’t seem inclined to chat to our little touring party. We soon realized that they were headed to the Italian parliament building. The main boulevards filled up with thousands of men in their black shirts and medals, their black boots striking the cobbles. A thousand arms raised, giving that strange, powerful salute I saw last night—arm straight out and up, palm down. Bertie told us it was the old salute of the Roman army, which seemed an odd choice. Odd unless the Fascists were planning to build a new Roman Empire, a thought which did not in the least comfort me. In fact, I was filled with foreboding. Only at Armistice had I seen such crowds, only during the war had I felt such tension. All these men in their home-sewn uniforms seemed to augur a new type of war, a very different understanding of peace.

  Progress was slow, as I could not walk fast or far without rest. Tom was also tired from his injuries, though his hands now only needed light bandages, leaving his fingers free. The four of us kept in a tight little knot, unwilling to move away from the slight protection we provided each other. Bertie had the camera with him and took photos of the crowds. As we approached the parliament building, we could hear cheering, a loud roar that rolled around and around the stone walls, rolled on top of us and shook the shopfronts. We turned the corner and there they all were, a sea of Blackshirts, arms straight up in that salute, roaring their approval, their anger, their power at the man on the balcony of the parliament building.