Love and War (9 page)

‘Don’t get excited, girl, I’ll tell you everything. His name is Fredo. Well, Alfredo really, but they call him Fredo. He’s in charge of the others, a sort of foreman, I suppose. Not an officer, mind, they’re in another camp, but he’s older and he was a farmer himself, so he shows the others what to do. He works here for a few days with Gino and Martino, then works at another farm with another pair. He’s a very good worker, too, the sort who goes at it without any huffing and puffing. Well, he can sometimes get away after supper when they’re all supposed to be shut up in the camp. I don’t know how he manages it, but I suppose it’s something he could be punished for. He walks three miles to get here, so of course, I give him a bit of a meal, and we talk what little we can, me with hardly a word of Italian and him with next to no English. And after that he walks back.’

Why can’t I think of anything to say? Because I’m terrified, that’s why. My mother is so innocent and unworldly that she doesn’t realise how violently her neighbours and friends might react. Even the wildest chapel people might feel outraged by her friendship with one of the ‘enemy’. Italians aren’t hated as the Germans are, but they’re certainly not loved. What if she was ostracised from the community? Farmers depend on one another for help at the harvest and in hard weather. What if she’s snowed up? What if she falls ill and can’t get out to feed the animals and milk the cows? And the man himself, what does she really know of him? If he was even a moderately decent man, would he be prepared to let her risk her good name? Perhaps he’s a really sick man, wanting revenge, or money to escape.

‘If you stayed tonight, you could meet him,’ she says. ‘That is, if he manages to get out. You could have a lift back in the post van tomorrow. You’d probably be a bit late for school, but you could say you’d missed the bus, which would be true enough, in a sense.’

‘Is he married?’

‘That doesn’t come into it, girl. It’s friendship I’m offering him, not a future. Rhian, I’m nearly fifty.’

‘You’re 47 and still very beautiful.’

‘Very beautiful. Hark at her. Very beautiful, with my cheeks fun of thread veins and my hair full of grey. If I was a hen, girl, I wouldn’t be worth the boiling... Well, he was married, but I think his wife is dead. At least, he’s shown me a photograph of a big tomb with an angel on the top. He’s a Roman Catholic, of course, but as you always say, Rhian, no religion has a monopoly of God. There, I’m getting quite tolerant in my old age, aren’t I?’

‘I don’t know what to say. I’m frightened, I really am.’

‘
Frightened?
Good gracious me, what is there to be frightened of. It’s the war, isn’t it, that’s to blame for everything? If it wasn’t for the war, he’d be home in all that lovely sunshine growing olives and those big tomatoes. And Huw would be home with you, and you’d have a baby by this time and another on the way, and not a minute to give a second thought to Mr Morgan, Art, or anyone else.’

We walk on in silence. I’ve never heard her talking so fluently.

‘How did old Big Mouth get to know about Alfredo?’

‘Oh, that was a real misfortune, that was. She’d called about a concert they’re having in Saron, wanting to know if I’d play the piano, if you please. As though I’d ever play in public. Well, I gave her a donation, they’re trying to raise twenty pounds for the Forces Comforts Fund, but do you think I could get her to go? She sat so long in your father’s chair, I thought she’d taken root, and at last I said, “Well, Mrs Lloyd, I’ll walk a step with you since it’s getting so late.” And as we were putting our coats on, Fredo arrived and let himself in, and that was that.’

‘She’ll tell everybody.’

‘She promised not to tell a soul... Oh yes, she’ll tell everybody, no doubt, but will anyone take much notice? I shouldn’t think so. I don’t think anyone is going to take me for a dangerous woman, somehow. No, they’ll only think I’m a bit foolish and leave it at that.’

‘I don’t know. People are stupid enough for anything these days. There could be a lot of bad feeling towards anyone who doesn’t conform.’

‘My family has never conformed, girl. My grandfather burnt his ricks rather than pay tithes to the English church. Why should I take the English side, now? The enemies of the English people are not my enemies. Why should I pretend they are?’

‘I won’t have an easy moment after this. And what would happen to him if they discovered he was breaking out of camp?’

‘Come, come, Rhian, take a hold of yourself. What about Huw? Isn’t he in far greater danger? Think of all the men, of all nationalities, who know they may be killed tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. The risk Fredo is taking is negligible, isn’t it? But I suppose you’re worried because you think he may be some sort of ogre. That’s why I want you to meet him. Once you’ve met him, you’ll understand... you know what I mean. Come on now, I’ve got a nice piece of sparerib in the oven and some parsnips and roast potatoes. In a way, it’s a new lease of life for me.’

When we get into the house, I can see that it is. Her eyes, always her best feature, are soft and glowing. With love, I suppose.

Alfredo arrives at about nine o’clock. He’s small and wiry, his skin dark and shiny as acorns, his dark hair turning grey: an attractive man, lively as a terrier.

My mother is blushing as she introduces us.

He says I am
bellissima
. Then he says, I think, that he knew I would be. And my mother blushes again.

I’ve been upstairs to my old bedroom and found an English/Italian dictionary which we’re soon passing back and fore to one another. Alfredo seems delighted by this new and more exact way of communication.

I ask him whether he has children. He has three sons, he says, and my mama, three daughters. He can hardly believe it when I tell him there’s only me; he felt sure my mother had held up three fingers when he’d questioned her. I try to tell him that one daughter is worth three sons but he fails to understand me.

‘Don’t try to be clever, Rhian,’ my mother says sharply. ‘Why must you always try to be clever? Talk slowly, and don’t put on that English accent either.’

Chastened – and indeed subdued – I have to sit and listen to her giving him a list of my shortcomings; in particular, pride, waywardness and stubbornness.

Then he, pointing to the occasional word in the dictionary, says I must not have care, because he knows I am gentle, true and radiant, as my mama has told him already much times. Then, suddenly, he understands my earlier weak attempt at a joke and laughs rather a lot.

Then he takes out the snapshot of the large tomb with angel, and yes, it is the grave of his beloved wife, who was as beautiful and virtuous as my mama, though not alike in outward, except regarding gait and industry.

After that, I leave the talking to him and my mother. Leaning back in my chair, I let their simple, halting sentences wash over me and even without following the words, recognise their grave commitment, and recognise also that there is nothing I can say or do which could cancel it.

There is absolutely nothing I can do.
The tension slips away from my shoulders as I accept this fact. My mother has always, quietly and steadfastly, gone about doing exactly what she’s decided on, how could I have considered myself capable of influencing her in any way?

‘Your girl is happy, yes?’ Alfredo says, noticing, I suppose, my change of mood. I rearrange my face, careful not to agree too readily. After all, I’m not happy, only a little less unhappy.

All the same, I can’t help liking him. He seems so lively, trying so hard to communicate and understand. And now that he and I are both silent, I’m aware of something else too; a quiet dogged strength, very like my mother’s, very like my father’s; perhaps the strength of all small farmers struggling against nature, but taking a certain pleasure both in the struggle and the occasional victory.

‘My father was a poet...
una poeta
.’ The word comes to me from my one term of Italian.

‘Ah, yes,’ he says. ‘Is good, poetry and music is good for peoples.’

‘And religion,’ my mother adds, rather sternly. ‘Don’t forget religion, whatever you do.’ She turns to me. ‘By the way, Rhian, Fredo is very worried because I haven’t got a picture of the Virgin Mary on the mantlepiece and I don’t want him to think I’m a heathen, do I?’

‘I’ll get one for you. I’ll bring it with me next time I come.’

‘It’s only for his sake, of course.’

‘Of course.’

My mother cooks him liver and bacon and fried potatoes which he eats very quickly and delicately. And then he smiles a lot at both of us, shakes our hands and leaves.

‘He never stays later than half past ten,’ my mother says. ‘He knows I need my sleep, and so, of course, does he. He won’t be back at that camp until well gone eleven as it is, and he’s got to be up at six.’

Six

THE POST VAN IS EARLY and gets me to school in time. In spite of this piece of luck, I feel worried and rushed all the morning; with so much on my mind, I slept badly last night and for the first time my marking hasn’t been done.

Angela Pugh, 5B, whose aunt lives in Tregroes, asks after my mother. I’m very short with her. ‘She’s quite well, thank you. Why do you ask?’

She gives me a wounded look. ‘I know you go home on a Wednesday evening,’ she says, ‘that’s all.’

I search her face and decide that she’s innocent. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache this morning.’

She’s prepared to forgive me. ‘Shall I get you an aspirin from Mrs Lewis?’

‘It’s all right thank you, Angela. I’ll struggle on.’

In my Welsh lesson with 2A, we’re reading a story set in the last war. An elderly Welsh couple hear that their only son is being sent abroad on active service. ‘
Lle mae’r hen abroad ’na
?’ the frightened wife asks her husband. ‘Where is that old abroad?’

‘Somewhere... somewhere beyond Wrexham,’ he answers.

This morning the story constricts my throat and brings tears to my eyes. I blow my nose, but the girls are nudging one another.

‘It isn’t right is it, Miss?’ Arthur Williams asks. ‘Sending our boys to fight for the English?’

I’m determined that this lesson is not going to turn into another political debate. Arthur Williams’s father is in prison for his pacifism; the majority of the class think he’s wicked or mad. ‘He’s helping Hitler, isn’t he, Miss?’ ‘It’s cowardice isn’t it, Miss?’ This morning I’m not capable of maintaining fair play.

‘War is a great tragedy,’ I say sternly, ‘and we’ll say no more about it. Go on reading, Carys.’

*

I’m more than ready for the dinner break and the first to reach the staff room. Gwynn Morgan, who never usually comes near, rushes in after me, closing the door behind him.

‘Where were you last night?’ he asks, his voice unrecognisably harsh. ‘I waited for your bus. I was worried out of my mind when you weren’t on it. Where were you?’

‘I stayed with my mother last night. I didn’t arrange to meet you. What’s the matter with you?’

He comes right up to me and grips me hard by the shoulders. ‘You
knew
I’d be meeting you. You knew I’d be waiting. Don’t you care a bit about me?’

I shake him off. ‘Leave me alone, somebody will see us. You didn’t ask to see me. I don’t owe you any apology.’

‘Rhian.’ Suddenly he looks old and dejected.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d be meeting me. I had so much to think about.’

‘We must talk, Rhian.’

‘I know. But not here, someone will come.’

‘Come to my room later. I’ll send everyone out.’

‘No. I’m worried about being in your room. Come to see me tonight, at eight o’clock tonight.’

He looks surprised. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘Yes, that will be better. Eight o’clock.’

He leaves and I find myself trembling again.

Mary Powell, Maths, comes in to find me staring out of the window, trying to compose myself. I turn towards her, making an effort to smile.

‘Rhian, what’s the matter? Your face is a terrible colour. Have you had bad news?’

‘No, I’m all right. It’s only, you know, the time of the month, that’s all.’

‘Thank goodness for that. I thought it was... Have you heard from Huw?’

‘Not for three weeks.’

‘And that doesn’t help. It’s hard, isn’t it? It’s not fair that we have to suffer like this. I haven’t heard from Alun, either, not this week or last. He had a few days in hospital last month, he had something called prickly heat. It sounds awfully painful, doesn’t it? He burns terribly in the sun, even in Llandudno, he’s so fair-skinned, you see. He should never have been sent to Burma.’ She turns her engagement ring round and round as she talks. ‘I wonder if he’ll come back safe,’ she says. ‘I’m afraid to listen to the news these days. Those Japanese are worse than the Germans. And there are more of them, too.’

We take out our sandwiches and make a pot of tea. Most of the staff go home or have school dinners, so we’re on our own.

‘Do you ever think, Rhian, about that telegram coming? We regret to inform you...’

‘I don’t let myself think of it,’ I reply, rather harshly.

‘Don’t you really? Oh, you are brave. I think about it all the time, seem to think of nothing else.’