Last Train from Liguria (2010) (3 page)

She had rolled up the parchment, refolded the letter (which contained not the slightest hint of warmth or welcome), arranged the envelopes into chronological sequence and tied everything together with a piece of string. Bella had then slipped this package into a portfolio and shoved it into the back of the wardrobe, where it took up much less room and seemed to make much less fuss than it had done in the hatbox.

It was her father who had arranged the position, introducing the idea to Bella in early spring. ‘I think it would do you the world of good,’ was to become his recurring expression, as if he were talking about a day at the seaside or a course of cod liver oil. At first she hadn’t paid the matter much heed - it was probably just one of his ‘notions’, as her late mother might have put it. ‘Best ignored, soonest fizzled.’ When the subject persisted it began to dawn on Bella that the poor man simply felt in need of a little reassurance - just enough to preserve the dignity of both father and daughter in their present arrangement. For her part, that she fully understood she was free to go if she so wished. For his part, that she insisted she would much, much rather stay.

And so she had humoured him for a while with soothing smiles and a little teasing. ‘Yes, Father, I’m sure Sicily must be quite beautiful but I’m happy, thank you all the same, to stay where I am. And yes it must be lovely to wake each day-in-day-out to the sun - if not a little tedious.’ She also gave the occasional chide. ‘Oh, Father, now really. Stop it! Or I might just go off and leave you. And then where would you be?’

But what had started out as a flimsy notion had somehow solidified into a definite plan and one morning just before Easter there was her father, flapping a letter over his boiled egg and toast. ‘It’s marvellous news, marvellous, marvellous. And congratulations to you, Bella.’

‘To me - why? Have I won something?’

‘Such an adventure! A year or two in another country. Perhaps longer, she doesn’t say how long you’ll be needed, I’m afraid. Nor does she specify your duties. Never mind - all that can be ironed out when you meet Signora Lami.’

’
Who?
’

‘Signora Lami. You remember? Bernstein in obstetrics recommended you.’

‘Bernstein?’

‘He’s a friend of the Lami family. I believe he may even be related to her. Let me see now, I can’t recall…”

’
Father
.’

‘An opportunity like this doesn’t come in every post bag, let me tell you. And you have the language. Well, as good as. I knew that mad old godmother of mine would come in useful in the end! Although it might be just as well to do a bit of brushing up before you leave. Early-to-mid May, she says. But you mustn’t be impatient, my dear, by the time everything is organized you won’t feel it going in. Now, about the Lamis; they are rolling in it by all accounts, so you’ll want for nothing. There’s the villa in Sicily and a summer residence on the Italian Riviera -
if
you don’t mind - and God knows what else. There is also some German connection so you’ll probably be popping off to Berlin or the like. You’ll be mixing with the best, you know. So smarten up a bit beforehand. Streamline yourself - isn’t that what it’s all about now? Or so I overheard one of my nurses say. The boy, it seems, will be a cinch. Six years old, only child, meek as a mouse. Already has a nurse, a teacher and a music master too - good God! - so there can’t be that much for you to do. The Signora speaks excellent English of course, and she’s young, I think, much younger than the hubby - probably a bit of a story there. Lonely, I daresay, be glad of a pal such as you. She wants you to write a letter of acceptance, tell her a bit about yourself, include a resume - better plump it up a bit. And hear this, Bella - she says that although the journey may be long and often tiresome, she will do her utmost to make it a comfortable one. First class from start to finish. From what I can gather, no expense spared. Absolutely
rrrr-olling
in it. And as for Italy - a country on the up, you know, now that that Mussolini chap has given them all a good kick up the backside. We could do with his like here, put the country back to work. Not that it need concern you. All that art and sunshine - what I wouldn’t give to be young again! I tell you, Bella, you’re a girl who knows how to land on her feet and no mistake.’

Bella could hardly believe it. ‘Are you telling me it’s all been arranged? That you have organized this behind my back?’

‘Really, my dear, it’s not as if we haven’t discussed it.’

‘But I thought you were joking.’

‘Joking? Why on earth would I do that?’

‘I just didn’t realize you actually meant to go ahead and—’

‘Well, you certainly led me to believe you were—’

‘But I don’t want to leave you,’ she said. ‘No. I
won’t
and that’s that.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry about me - I have my work and plenty of it. Besides, Mrs Carter will be here every day.’

‘But it’s not the same, Father. Mrs Carter isn’t family. You’ll be all alone. Coming home every night to an empty house. Nobody here. Always alone. I won’t have it.’

Crab-like, his fingers pressing Signora Lami’s letter into the table, he cocked his head a little to one side, looked at her, then looked away. ‘Oh, Bella. I’m so seldom home, you know - between the hospital and my other commitments - well, let’s be honest, my dear. It’s you.
You
who are always alone.’

*

Bella knew exactly what she should do now. If there were any chance of getting the better of her father, she would have to learn from her late mother. What would Mother have advised?

She rested her forehead on the door her father had just closed behind him, then gave herself firm instruction: leave well enough alone for the moment. Withdraw, stay silent. Let him be the one to come back to the subject. Let him be the one to do all the talking until he has talked himself out of the idea. There is strength in silence, Mother would have said so. No surer way of unnerving a man.

Now. She would start by gently opening this door, stepping lightly into the hall, a slow easy turn for the stairs, pass by his study with neither remark nor glance, then continue on up to her room. Where she would remain until he decided to come around, first to his senses, then to her way of thinking. Yes.

But the more she thought of it! The way he had made the decision without her, the way he shrugged off any attempt to discuss the matter further; the way he kept making those awful jokes and jolly gestures throughout. Then the cold, cruel delivery of that last remark about her always being alone. Turning his back on her like that, then leaving the room, clipping the door shut behind him.

She snatched at the doorknob, twitched it open, then ploughed up the stairs shaking with rage. When she got to his study the door was ajar; she slapped it away from her. ‘How could you?’ she demanded. ‘Father, how could you?’

He was moving about the room in his slow, efficient manner; pulling at shelves, plucking at drawers until he had constructed a pile on his desk: medical documents, sample bottles, pocket watch, stethoscope, a small narrow torch which he brought up to his face, switched on and eyeballed for a moment before switching it off again.

When the pile was complete, he immediately began to thin it out again, picking each item up and feeding it down into the soft leather gut of his big brown bag.

These were his props for the outside world. This was the bag that would carry them there. Bella knew the routine and knew that nothing would interfere with it. There was a time, long ago, when she would have been part of it. A house in Dublin then; a different desk. She was a child holding the bag open for him, lisping the title and purpose of each article. She was going to be a doctor. They had both seemed so certain of it - why had it never happened?

She waited while he pulled his overcoat from the coat stand, shrugged his shoulders into it, slapped the creases out of his gloves, angled his umbrella out from the stand, and he still hadn’t looked at her face. When he did speak to her, it was through the mirror while he fussed at his collar and stud. ‘Listen to me, Bella, we moved to London for a better life, a new start - for your sake as I recall. We have been here more than seventeen years and well, your life is not exactly…”

‘Not exactly what?’

‘Well. Not what we hoped it would be. You’re almost thirty-two, you know, and with your poor mother gone, and the trouble with your back resolved, and your other little problems well under control.’

‘Father, please!’

‘All right - there’s no point in dragging all that up now, I suppose. What I’m trying to say is, there really is no reason for you to remain here day in, day out. You’re in good health now and still relatively young.’

‘I just don’t understand it, Father.’

‘Oh come on now, Bella, you don’t want to be stuck with an old goat like me for ever.’

‘But, Father, you’re not an old goat.’

‘Indeed I am an old goat. Please, my dear, it’s for your own good.’

‘I thought we were happy,’ she said and began crying.

‘Now let’s not have any of this,’ he said, turning around at last to face her.

She could see the back of his head in the mirror, the edge of his collar, the rind of thick skin over it, the line of his shoulders, the fall of his coat. It was as if somebody else was in the room with them. Somebody who had wandered in by mistake, from a crowded railway platform or some other populated and anonymous place. A stranger, bewildered and embarrassed to have found himself caught in the middle of this little scene. He was like a man who was pretending not to be there.

‘I should be with you, Father. With you, here. I don’t want to live in Sicily, in a strange—”

‘That’s enough, Bella.’

‘Please don’t make me go. Please. Please.
Please
.’

‘Bella, stop it now, I said.
Now
.’

It wasn’t until he raised his voice that she realized what she’d been doing, pulling at his lapels like that, sobbing and screaming, dribbling all over him. His hands came down and settled on top of hers, then in one strong steady movement, like that of an oarsman, he had lifted, pushed and dropped them away.

‘Take control of yourself, Bella!’

She accepted his chair and the handkerchief too, offered at arm’s length - not one of his own either, she noted, but from the box he reserved for hysterical female patients. Next she was clutching a glass, sucking at something he had concocted and mixed with water.

‘Bella,’ he said after a while. ‘Are you settled now?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Foolish.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m just a little upset, that’s all.’

‘We’ll forget about it now. But Bella, I have something important to say to you, and I want you to listen to me carefully.’ He leaned a little way towards her.

‘Yes, Father?’

‘You are not my wife, Bella. You are my daughter.’

*

In the end Bella had decided to believe her father; that it was for her own good, a sacrifice was being made on her account. A sacrifice she must respect. He was a father trying to prepare his only child for the future, it was as simple as that. One day she would find herself completely alone, no one to look to, nor care for. The few relatives they had left behind in Ireland would want nothing to do with her - nor would she make any attempt to contact them. Her father knew this just as he had known not to insult her with any pretence of a possible marriage.

She would be like poor Miss Vaughan who used to live across the road. A middle-aged orphan. In the meantime, what was wrong with striking out on her own for a year or two - if that was how she was going to end up? Alone in this house. But at least it would be
her
house, whatever little money remained,
hers
to spend as she wished. Not that she’d have to rely on her father’s leftovers. She could make her own way. Take in lodgers perhaps, or become fluent enough in Italian to translate professionally. Or maybe even teach Italian - why not? Her father’s study could be converted into a sort of classroom; blackboard set behind his desk, students placed at little tables round the edges of his silk Kashmiri rug. If that didn’t suit she could always teach in a proper language school, where she could meet people, make friends, visit and be visited. She could live alone in this house one day as an independent woman, without fear of the rooms beyond the room she was occupying. Or fear of the street outside, because to go out into it would mean having to return to a house that had become her enemy. She would be more than just a name muttered by neighbours too polite to bring themselves to knock on her door. More than an occasional shadow at the lace of an upstairs window, or a pair of hands taking in a small box of delivered groceries every week. She would not lie dead for days on the flagstone floor of the kitchen. Nor be covered in a rough police blanket and carried down the garden path with Gilby’s grocery boy mewling up at a constable, ‘I knew it when she didn’t answer the door the second I rung! She always answers straight off, she does. On other side, waitin’ - see? - that’s where she always is.’

She would not,
not
become poor Miss Vaughan.

*

The house grew alive around her and she couldn’t seem to leave it alone, drifting from room to room, passing through the ghosts of her future: friends she had yet to meet; conversations she was yet to be part of; laughter. Everything became relevant. The mirabelle pattern on the dining-room wallpaper; the texture of a sofa, a cushion, a drape. Even ornaments that up to now she had either despised or simply not noticed, were mentally preserved. She would modernize this whole stuffy house, pull it apart, take it beyond recognition - streamline it. For days Bella felt a sense of elation and longed to get her new life in Sicily over and done with, so she could return to revise and relive her old one, as this other, independent person.