The Golden Lion

by Pamela Haines

  She didn’t draw the curtains or put on the light. The fantasy persisted. She knew it for what it was – a fantasy. There was no going back now. The Holy Family, desecrated. It never would be again {never had been), the Holy Family.

  She got up and was sick in the handbasin. She lay quite still in the dark, a dangerous hammering in her head. Her throat felt choked. No sobs, no thoughts. I can’t, won’t think. Eddie, oh Eddie, where are you, Eddie? The song ran through her head, chiming – sung only last night, in Funchal. Ain’t no sweet man worth the salt of my tears. But even to think of Eddie was like some dreadful wound.

  A motorbike revving up in the street below, beyond the garden. Over and over. I’ll go to Moorgarth, she thought. Maybe Uncle Dick would be there. She imagined herself taking refuge. Her own room. The peace, the understanding. I could cook for Uncle Dick. We could go for long walks together. Long walks as once she’d taken Uncle Eric …

  And then, a sharp knock on the door. Maria’s voice. ‘Helen.’ Leaping up and opening it. Maria, coming in, switching on the light. Her cold voice:

  ‘You haven’t unpacked. Good … You’re to go straight over to Montpelier Square, to Dulcie and Jenny’s.’

  She said, faintly, ‘Moorgarth. I could get an evening train. I –’

  ‘Take your luggage now. Straight round to Montpelier Square. I don’t want to see you or talk to you.’

  ‘But I –’

  ‘You’re to stay there till we decide what to do with you.’

  ‘Eddie –’

  ‘Go now. And be quick about it. Just go!’

  She remembered little about the next few weeks. She knew both Aunt Dulcie and Jenny had been kind to her. She had the feeling Dulcie was puzzled as well as pained. Jenny gave her tasks, simple household ones. She was never out of their sight. The kindest and gentlest of gaolers. But gaolers nevertheless. What did they know? She suspected, everything. She was at once in prison, and in hospital. They treated her with gentleness and care as if she were an invalid. She existed in just such a vacuum, a time warp.

  Jenny told her, ‘It’s better – everyone thinks it’s better you never – that you don’t see Eddie any more.’ But she had not thought she could. As for Yorkshire. How could she have thought she could go to Yorkshire?

  Dulcie and Jenny seldom played the radio except for the news morning and evening, and perhaps a play if someone good was acting in it. She heard no dance music. She did not think of herself as a singer any longer.

  At the end of the third week, Jenny said, ‘Something’s been arranged for you, Helen.’

  She was told, kindly but firmly, that a temporary post had been found for her as governess to a family in Palermo. Dulcie said, ‘I’m sure, like all the young, you want to travel.’

  ‘Isn’t that where Guy is?’

  ‘It’s Guy who’s arranged it. The family are friends of his and Laura’s. Maria got in touch with him …’

  She had not seen Maria again. The preparations for going –she’d perhaps surprised Dulcie and Jenny with her lack of curiosity. She had not asked, had not cared, what or who this family was.

  A nightmare journey. Raw with fatigue. Jenny and Dulcie dubious, worried a little whether she was fit to travel. (The invalid again.) A journey in which natural beauty seen from the train window only pointed a mocking figure at her desolation. As the mountains, the sparkling lakes and spotless chalets of Switzerland, gave way to Italy, her spirits sank lower and lower.

  Guy was there to meet her at Palermo. She had not seen him since the autumn of 1946. She had always liked him, but now she saw him as another of the family, a friend of, ready to criticize, to pass judgment.

  ‘I’m driving you to our apartment first. You can rest there. We’ll take you to the Di Benedetto’s tomorrow.’

  As they drove along, he explained about Ruggero and Virginia. ‘Virginia – they told you, she’s having a baby in October? The children are fun. Lovely. Easy. You’ll be happy. And not too homesick, I hope. There are other English around. British Council people, connections, etcetera. And I’ve just invited an army friend who was in Naples with me. He comes later this month.’

  ‘How’s Maria?’ he asked. She imagined that his voice changed tone.

  She said: ‘Did Maria tell you why I wanted to be a governess?’

  ‘No. She just said you wanted to be one … I suppose I seemed an obvious person to ask for help … What was the real reason, then? An emotional upset?’

  ‘Sort of. A love-affair that went wrong …’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No, not really. It was enough other people disapproving. I don’t want you too.’

  ‘Try me, and see.’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s over, that’s the main thing. And I’m miles away, forgetting it ever happened.’ She said in a small voice, ‘He was married, he’s married.’

  ‘I see. Subject closed.’

  Marcello Di Benedetto, aged five, skipping through the doorway – little blue overall, sandals, white socks, satchel. ‘Plis, Miss.’ His English, which wasn’t coming on at all. He had learned to say ‘Mickey Mouse’. And ‘Ellen’ for Helen.

  He skipped always as he walked beside her, satchel swinging from one hand, the other tight in hers. As they turned out of the side street into the busy one, traffic lumbered and whizzed by. It was a twenty-minute walk to the apartment. Sometimes she went with the chauffeur to collect him, but on Tuesdays and Thursdays she came always on foot.

  ‘Miss, miss. Ellen. Caramella, plis, Miss.’

  ‘Just one. One only.’ He detached his hand, felt in her pocket. One boiled sweet, kept for him. Off with the paper, and into his mouth. Then the trusting hand was back again.

  ‘Andiamo to the Giardino Inglese this afternoon,’ she told him in her halting Italian, mixed with English. They seemed to understand each other.

  The secret journal of Helen Connors, Palermo, Sicily, May 1950.

  There it is. My last entry:

  Something terrible, and wonderful, has happened. Eddie and I… Nothing else. I never added to it.

  The terrible wonderful thing now is that it doesn’t feel any different It’s only the guilt – but I can’t speak of that. That is so terrible. Terrible. It should be about religion and sin but it isn’t. It’s a wound.

  It began after I’d been a few weeks here. It must have been buried. Hidden and lying in wait for when I would long and long for home. Oh, what have I done? What have I done to us? Maria, Eddie, Helen, who once were …

  What else did I lose besides Maria? My virginity, of course. (But how could I want that back … after what I’ve known, what I’ve learned. And I did love him, I do love him – because this is a secret journal I can write it, again and again, I love you, Eddie. Where are you now? One sign from you, one scribbled note, the sound of your voice … anything. But I didn’t, and you didn’t. Now I think we never will.)

  Friends from before, people like Ronnie – I can’t go back, you see. Not for a long time, at any rate. I can’t talk to anybody. Except Eddie. What could I say about it all – and my hopelessness?

  I am frightened here in Palermo. I don’t know what (or who) I’m frightened of. But perhaps because I’ve been sent here as a punishment (or so it seems), it’s in some way like a prison. I could run away, but where to? I could earn my living, singing, if I wanted to.

  Evening. Same day.

  I think perhaps I should be brave, and try to write something I can bear to read in years to come. A few ordinary pages –My Life as a Governess in Palermo. That sort of thing. I can try anyway.

  Here beginneth.

  So far in Palermo, I’ve seen the Cathedral, the Cappella Palatina, the Norman Palace, the National Museum, four churches, the rather daring fountain in the Piazza Pretoria, and the inside of two hotels – the Hotel des Palmes which used to be the Palazzo Ingham, built by the Marsala king, and the Villa Igiea, which is very art nouveau.

  Sometimes I drive out with the family.
We’ve been to Monreale, Bagheria and Cefalú. We’ve also spent a day at the villa of Laura and Guy’s friend, the Contessa Tarantino-Falletta. Both families went out there one Sunday. She speaks English perfectly and was very gracious to me. A Dominican priest who was working in the library there was very kind too and tried to talk to me. But his English was very bad – and my Italian’s hardly there … Marcello sat on his knee and gabbled excitedly, and he let Silvi play with his rosary and try to pull it up on to her neck. Seeing him, how patient he was, I thought how sad it is priests can’t have children. I can’t imagine religious life at all. For me, that is.

  The Contessa talked about the famous bandit Giuliano (he’s so famous, he’s known in the outside world as well, which I hadn’t realized). I gather he’s a sort of Robin Hood. His hideout is in the mountains, where journalists come to visit him. But the police are out to get him. So perhaps it is only a matter of time. I would be afraid to be alone in the countryside, though they say he is very chivalrous.

  Morning.

  I mean to write in this journal every day. I thought maybe it would feel better if I saw everything like a play, with all of us characters in it. Then perhaps I could watch it from outside, and not feel too much.

  So here are the dramatis personae.

  First the Dennisons.

  Guy Dennison, 29. British Council lecturer. Already known to me, so I won’t put any more. I think he’s probably as kind as he seems, though you never know. He has been very tactful.

  Laura Dennison, 26. His wife. Known to me also (slightly). Guy worships her and doesn’t she know it? She always looks as if she’s minding her own business, whatever that is. She’s nice to me, though I wouldn’t trust her with anything that really mattered. Don’t know why. She gets ratty sometimes about the Englishness of Guy which you’d think would be the bit that charmed her. (’Another letter from your Aunt Eleanor, or do I say Mrs Mcintosh – is not that your word for an impermeabileT ‘I love Aunt Eleanor,’ Guy said. Which I thought was rather nice.)

  Silvi and Titì (Caterina) Dennison, 3 and 2. Beauties.

  Randall Furness. Age? Joker in the pack. Army friend of Guy’s. Out here for a four-week holiday before emigrating to Kenya, to grow coffee. He asked me to show him some of Palermo while Guy’s at work in the day, so we’ve been to –see previous list!

  He’s very amusing about his and Guy’s Naples experiences. He’s very loyal but I think might like to be critical of Laura for some things – like not appreciating Guy enough. He knows about the singing – Guy told him about it last year. He wanted me to do some for him, and asked me why ever I’d stopped. Then I said, ‘I can’t talk about it,’ and he was very gentle and nice. Other times he’s often what they call, I think, sardonic.

  I’ve let him kiss me a few times. (Where would I get the sort of energy to say no?) I learned only that I perhaps don’t like moustaches.

  And now, the Di Benedetto family.

  Ruggero Di Benedetto. 37 about. Business man. He is very good-looking if you like those sort of looks. And very charming too, if you fall for charm. But he’s nice too, I think, and kind. Everyone is kind here. Sometimes he pays me a lot of old-fashioned attention and courtesy. Other times he doesn’t notice I’m there. He adores Marcello. Natali too, of course, but he’s immensely proud of Marcello. He wants the new baby to be another son. Little details – he makes a steeple with his hands, then lowers them in front of his wineglass, tapping the forefingers together while he thinks of what he’s going to say. He is quite interested in politics. His wife isn’t.

  Virginia Di Benedetto. I think she’s lovely but I can see that she’s not conventionally beautiful. She looks distracted often, far away. Ruggero says she’s always like this when she’s having a baby – in another world. She has very elegant legs and tiny feet. Her shoes are all made for her – but she has to have special ones now, because her ankles are so swollen (the baby isn’t till October but the weather is already very hot).

  Marcello Di Benedetto, 5. Adorable. Tries to twist me round his little finger.

  Natali Di Benedetto, 3. Adorable. Can twist me round her little finger.

  The Di Benedetto grandparents. A bent-over granny and an upright grandpa with splendid whiskers. The children’s nurse, Rosetta. And a long cast of extras. In the kitchen they all try to feed me up, and make a great fuss of me, though I can’t understand a word.

  Now SEE how light I’ve kept the tone! Anyone could open this journal and read to their heart’s content, and learn NOTHING.

  May 24th. Evening.

  Randall proposed to me this morning. I was taken completely by surprise and stammered out something stupid. He said hadn’t I guessed anything at all? Of course he wants a wife to take out with him – or at least to join him soon. I don’t think he actually came here to look for one, but it’s obviously been in his mind all the time. Anyway, I thanked him very much but – no. He took it very easily. The only odd remark he made was, ‘You bring out the protective in a man, but I think you’re pretty tough.’ I told him, yes, I was. He spoke about love, of course. But anyone can speak of love. It all made me very sad.

  But then I’m sad all the time, aren’t I? if I’m to be honest–

  It’s no good to write this wretched journal. It always ends in tears …

  Afterthought. I saw in an English paper today, months out of date. A piece about crooners. Just the words … ‘in the heyday of Al Bowlly, Jack Plant, Eddie Sabrini …’ Why is just his name enough to wake up everything? Everything.

  Now that she was settled in she went three times a week for Italian lessons, arranged for her by Guy. She went to an elderly widow, Signora di Cara. Together they worked through a grammar printed in 1890 on thin paper with close smudged print. She thought of complaining, but as Guy had not only arranged but was also paying for the lessons, she felt she couldn’t – even though he had said, ‘Let me know if it doesn’t work out.’ She suspected he was doing Signora di Cara a kindness.

  Sometimes they would read poetry. Or rather, Helen would be required to read – which she did with difficulty. ‘Fratelli D’Italia, l’italia s’é desta, dell’elmo di Scipio, S’é cinto la testa…’ while Signora di Cara snored, whistling gently.

  The last week in June, Guy had another visitor, the cousin of someone he had been at school with. Adrian Croft-Jenkins, in his second year at Cambridge – and spending the Long Vacation in Italy and France. He would be staying two weeks. Helen was invited over to meet him.

  She liked him at once. He was not much taller than her, thin and wiry, with black hair and green mocking eyes. ‘Dear heart,’ he called her, in a teasing voice. He mocked everything: school, family, his time in the army. ‘Dear heart, if you had seen the tears I shed. A month’s water supply for Catterick. Of course, I should really have been in the Guards …’

  They saw quite a lot of each other. She enjoyed being with him more than she had with Randall. It was more like the brother she had lost (though anyone less like Billy, as she remembered him …) He liked to take her into the Hotel des Palmes, which with its high ceilings, and vistas of marble, he felt was an appropriately grand setting for them both to drink in. She sat with him in the bar, sipping Campari, while he talked about Cambridge, and how he shone in the Footlights there.

  She told him about her singing career. She had grown used to giving the facts deadpan. She waited for him to mock Eddie –the idea of Eddie, passé Eddie. But nothing happened. Perhaps it was beneath his contempt? She said:

  ‘We nearly had an engagement at a Cambridge Ball, in June 1949 –’

  ‘Ah, if you’ve never been to a May Ball … So romantic. What you have missed, dear heart. Next year, I shall take you. Wait to hear from me …’

  In July it became very hot. Some of her mornings were still free, even though school was over now. She spent them often in search of coolness, sitting in cloisters of monasteries. In the afternoons she took the children out.

  Early in the month the bandit Gi
uliano was shot dead. She read that he’d been betrayed by his second-in-command, who was also his cousin. The newspapers and magazines, although she could not understand them, were full of lurid and dramatic photographs. Guy and Ruggero found the circumstances surrounding the death odd. But she understood little of it, wondering only if Adrian had read of it. During his stay he’d been fascinated by the adventures of Giuliano and his band.

  Two weeks now since Adrian had left. She had missed him immediately. His departure had brought on a fresh wave of homesickness – just when she had thought it cured.

  His teasing voice would come suddenly into her head. She held on to the memory of him, as some kind of reassurance that she came from England and would – some time – return there. Her stay here, which she hadn’t chosen, seemed now to have no end in sight. How long would she stay? It hadn’t been decided. Her future was as vague as ever – and as alarming.

  All this time Guy and Laura were kind to her. She often spent Sunday with them, perhaps going out for a picnic or a drive. Then she would grow wary suddenly, imagining that perhaps Guy knew the real story of why she was out here. That Maria had written to him since. That she was now something faintly disgusting. And she would watch his face for a sign – which she never saw.

  She visited churches and museums, monasteries, palaces. No need in Palermo to exhaust the supply. Guidebook in hand, she worked in squares. She even at one stage traced the English connections, the Marsala families of Whitakers and Inghams.

  Eating breakfast one morning, thinking about where to go, what to do, Adrian’s voice slipped into her memory.

  ‘You haven’t seen the Capuchin catacombs? Dear heart, I tootled down there at once, before any other of the Musts. It is of course a Must. Quite delightful. Ghost stories and spooky films and grand guignol, all rolled into one. You’ll love it.’

  So, that’s where I shall go this morning … She walked out from the city centre, through the Porta Nuova, and along the Corso Calatafimi. A long dusty walk. She stopped at a café and sat half an hour with a spremuta.