Deep and Silent Waters (24 page)

The other girls fell silent. Gina’s father, the grocer, was still alive, and Olivia’s father, Conte Niccolo d’Angeli, had been shot on his horse in the First World War. He had limped ever since so he had not been called up. He didn’t live at home, however, because he had accepted a post in Mussolini’s government, first as a diplomat and then, since the war began, based in Rome, dealing with foreign affairs.

‘He was in the army?’ Domenico asked quietly, watching her.

‘He was killed when the English bombed Milan.’

‘What was he doing in Milan?’

‘We live there. He ran our factory. I’ll never forgive God for letting him be killed. Our home isn’t there any more, either.’

‘God didn’t make this war,’ Domenico said. ‘Governments did. Men did.’

‘Then men are stupid and so are governments.’

‘You’re very violent in your opinions,’ he said, and laughed suddenly. ‘But I admit I don’t entirely disagree. What’s your name? And what are you doing in Venice if your family live in Milan?’

‘My mother sent me here to my aunt. She thought I’d be safer. My name is Vittoria Serrati.’

He frowned. ‘Serrati … That’s a familiar name, I’m sure I’ve heard it before.’

‘Her father makes pills,’ Gina said, with a sting of spite that made Vittoria flush. ‘Every chemist sells them.’

‘Oh,
that
Serrati. Of course!’ Domenico laughed again, then did a sort of double-take. He was staring at Gina, silently taking in the way she looked: her apricot skin, huge eyes, red-gold Titian hair. The other girls watched, recognising the effect thirteen-year-old Gina always had on men. She was precocious for her age: her mother had seen to that, dressing her in the latest fashions, teaching her how to pose, look through her eyelashes, smile invitingly. Signora Cavani wanted her to marry well, catch a man with money, and Gina was already an expert fisher of men. Men of eighteen or eighty-five who passed her in the street always turned to gape after her. Schoolboys followed her, making chicken noises and whistling, and even the priest, who came to hear their confessions and teach them their catechism, flushed when Gina bent over his desk to point out something in her exercise book, her hair straying against his cheek. And she knew what she was doing. Gina was already aware of her powers.

‘And you? Who are you?’ asked Domenico, at last.

‘My name is Gina Cavani.’ She did not smile. Her oval face was clear and cool, an exquisite cameo, her lashes flickering against that warm, smooth skin.

He went on staring, saying nothing. From the house someone called, ‘Domenico? Come in, you have a visitor!’

‘Coming!’ he shouted back. ‘
Ciao
, girls.’ But it was at Gina that he took his last, long look before he went.

Afraid that he would become a bargaining tool in peace terms with the Allies, the Germans searched for Mussolini, but the new Italian government had moved him up into the Appenine mountains to an isolated skiing resort, which they hoped would be easy to defend. However, it did not take long for the Germans to bribe someone to betray his whereabouts.

On 12 September 1943, a commando unit made a daring landing, in a plane, right on the mountain peak and Mussolini’s guards gave him up without resistance.

Then Il Duce was back in power, a puppet whose strings were now pulled by the Germans. The reprisals he took against those he felt had betrayed him were bloody and ruthless – even his own son-in-law, Ciano, was shot, and hundreds of others soon followed, many of them denounced in secret letters. Italy was disintegrating into madness.

Few letters got through now to Vittoria, but she heard whispers of what was going on. Milan was in turmoil; there were a dozen Fascist squads in the city. They competed against each other, fought over territories, ran protection rackets, burgled empty houses, looted after air-raids, arrested anyone they suspected might be anti-Fascist.

Mamma and Carlo were still living in the ruins of their home. Carlo had taken over the running of what was left of the Serrati factory – everyone needed drugs – and he survived by paying one group to protect him and his factory against all the others. Day and night armed guards were at the gates of his home and his workplace. The bombed section was left to fall down and the firm operated in the untouched sheds. Life in Milan was hell, Anna wrote to her daughter. Niccolo disappeared one day, either ran away to join Filippo in the mountains, or was abducted by Germans or one of the Fascist gangs – although if it had been the latter they would have sent a ransom demand for him, and none had come.

Olivia’s brother celebrated his seventeenth birthday by going off to join his father’s regiment. Within a month he had been wounded and after that he disappeared. All his mother and sister could do was hope that he was alive somewhere, in a prisoner-of-war camp or with the partisans, and one day would come home.

‘Mamma says it’s better that we shouldn’t hear,’ Olivia said. ‘Not knowing if he’s alive is better than knowing he’s dead. At least we still have hope.’

‘Of course you do,’ said Gina, putting an arm round her friend’s waist. ‘Don’t worry, Livy, he’s safe, I know it. He’ll be back when the war is over.’

Vittoria shivered. What would life be like when the English and the Americans came? She was afraid to think about the future.

In the spring of 1945 Vittoria’s mother wrote to her aunt.

Aunt Maria crossed herself. ‘Those poor brave boys. Oh, this is a terrible world we live in.’

‘What else does Mamma say?’ Vittoria asked.

Aunt Maria continued, in her wavering voice, ‘“God bless you, thank you for taking care of my little girl. Kiss Vittoria for me and say that as soon as it is safe she shall come home. It makes me happier to think that she is not in as much danger as her brothers.”’ Aunt Maria folded the letter, sighing. ‘Amen to that. We are lucky to be in Venice, Vittoria.’

Those last months of the war were an endless nightmare. The Allies swept up through Italy, with the Germans giving way in front of them and the Italian army disintegrating.

In April 1945 Mussolini was persuaded to talk to the leaders of the partisan movement about his future. The most they would offer was that he should have a fair trial. Realising he had no hope, he tried to escape, but within minutes had been stopped by the 52nd Garibaldi brigade of partisans. His fate was sealed.

There was no time for a formal trial – the Americans were only hours away. The partisans executed him and his mistress. The bodies were driven in an open truck to the Piazzale Loreto in Milan where they were strung up by the heels, and left there, upside down, like pigs in a slaughter-house, while the crowds jeered and threw things at them.

Italy fell apart. Italian fought Italian, Communist against Fascist, and in some parts of the country bodies littered the streets. But Venice was still quiet, a little oasis of peace. At last, the Germans fled back into their own country and the English and the Americans occupied Italy.

Walking home slowly from school one summer day, Vittoria heard English spoken for the first time in years. She stopped in her tracks and turned, heart pounding behind her rib-cage. A group of khaki-uniformed men were standing on a corner with a map in their hands, staring down at it.

One was Frederick Canfield. He looked different in uniform, older, thinner, tougher, but it was him. Why were they here, these English soldiers? Had they invaded Venice?

When she got home, Rosa rushed her in to see her aunt, who held out her arms. Vittoria flung herself on to her knees and clasped Aunt Maria round the waist.

‘Oh, Aunt—’

‘Toria, I have such news for you!’

‘I know, I saw them! English soldiers have got here – what will happen to us?’

Aunt Maria pushed Vittoria back so that she could see her face. ‘What are you saying? I was talking about your mother.’

Vittoria looked up at her aunt no colour in her face. ‘My mother? Is she dead?’

‘No, no, child, she’s here. Upstairs. She was so exhausted by the journey that I sent her to bed, but you’ll see her very soon. Let her sleep for a few hours.’

Vittoria looked up the dark, narrow stairs. ‘Which room is she in? Can’t I just go and peep at her? I won’t make a sound.’

Aunt Maria brushed her dark hair back from her forehead. ‘No, darling. Be patient a little while longer. Did you say you saw English soldiers? Oh, the saints have mercy on us! I wonder what that will mean for us all?’

That evening, Frederick Canfield arrived at the dark little house. Rosa almost fainted with fright as if a devil was at their door.

‘Signora Serrati?’

Rosa fell back without answering. It was Vittoria who met him at the door of the tiny parlour, confronted him, chin up, eyes full of loathing. How had he found out that her mother was here?

‘Toria?’ he asked, incredulous. ‘Is it really you? The last time I saw you, you were just a baby. You’ve been growing up while I’ve been away. But you still don’t look like your mother, do you?’

His voice was so familiar, so English and cool, that she hated him even more. ‘What do you want, Signor Canfield?’ she asked icily.

‘I have come to see your mother, Toria,’ he replied.

‘You can’t. She is very tired. She has only just arrived from Milan.’

He gave her that languid, mocking smile she remembered so well. ‘I know. I escorted her here in my Jeep. There was no other way she would have got here safely from Milan – the roads are still very dangerous and the partisans kill on sight without bothering to ask questions.’

There was a creaking on the narrow little stairs and he looked over Vittoria’s head. His face lit up. ‘Ah … Anna, there you are.’

He walked towards her, holding out his hands, and Vittoria watched bitterly as her mother took them. She saw him kiss Anna’s hands, while she smiled at him, her mouth a passionate curve.

They were lovers. Vittoria knew what that meant now. She was thirteen. She knew all about what went on between a man and a woman. But, then, hadn’t she known from the moment when, at only four years old, she had seen her father on the bed with her nurse and had heard the ugly noises he made? Hadn’t she known when she saw this man with her mother, in the garden in Milan? Oh, then she had not fully understood what she now knew; she had only glimpsed it through a veil of uncertainly and fear.

Now she knew everything. Frederick Canfield had taken her father’s place in her mother’s bed. Vittoria felt sick, hating both of them. Even more, she was frightened. What could happen to her if this Englishman took her mother away with him?

‘You look grisly,’ Melanie said with her usual bluntness, leaning forward across their table at the Ivy to peer myopically at Laura’s pallor and the shadows under her eyes. ‘What’s wrong? You sick?’

‘I’m just a bit edgy.’

Melanie nibbled a piece of Melba toast. ‘Edgy about what?’

Laura hesitated, then admitted, ‘Going to Venice.’ She played eyes down, toying with her glass of sparkling Malvern water, watching the ice bob and chink.

Melanie exploded, ‘Why didn’t you decide that before I signed the fucking contract? You can’t say I forced you. In fact, I warned you not to accept that part, but you didn’t listen, did you?’ Half satisfied that she had been right, half irritated that Laura had come to see that too late to get out of the contract without paying a hefty cancellation fee, Melanie then asked, ‘And what do you mean you’re edgy? Are you scared you’ll find the part difficult? Or scared of Ferrese? You don’t think he’s going to push you out of any windows, do you?’ She laughed, but something in her face wasn’t amused.

Wishing now that she had kept quiet, Laura lied, ‘No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous. I guess I’m just nervous about this part. It’s really going to stretch me and I only hope I can pull it off.’

The waiter arrived with their first course: houmous with chick pea relish for Melanie and tomato and basil galette for Laura.

‘You’ll be great,’ Melanie said, picking up her knife and fork, voice thickened by hunger. ‘I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday lunch time, my stomach thinks my throat’s cut.’

Laura hadn’t eaten much for days, she rarely did, lived on salad and chicken or fish, but didn’t say anything. Melanie would take it as a personal attack: when she was dieting her temper was always on a short fuse, she resented anyone who seemed to her to be boasting that they ate less than she did or had lost more weight.

They talked about several other projects that had just come up on offer for the future. ‘Since word got round that you’d got the lead in
The Lily
the phone hasn’t stopped ringing. You are
hot
, girl. If this film does big box office, I’ll be able to name my own price for the next job. You can take a few scripts with you to Venice and let me know which one you like, and it had better be one with a big price tag!’

‘I don’t want to think about the future. I’ve got enough problems right now.’ Laura played with the Thai baked sea bass in front of her; it was served with fragrant rice, scented with lemon grass and lime leaves.

‘Isn’t that any good?’ Melanie was visibly enjoying her escalope of veal Holstein, which she had chosen to have with a green salad.

‘It’s delicious, I’m just not hungry.’ Her stomach was like a washing-machine, the contents tumbling over and over. She would be flying to Venice in two days and as the time got closer her fear grew stronger. What was waiting for her there?

‘Oh, lucky you, then,’ muttered Melanie, greedily eying the fish. She had finished her food and was still hungry, but refused a pudding. ‘Just a black coffee,’ she told the waiter as he took their plates away.