Birmingham Rose (30 page)

Finally, after ten minutes, she had located the depot, and drove quickly round into the street behind. At once the doors of the yard swung open and she reversed inside.

‘Get your engine off quick,’ Henry hissed at her as she slowly negotiated the space between the high gates. He flashed a torch into the cab. ‘There could be trouble. We’ve had wire cutters out here. I’ve only just managed to get shot of them.’

‘Wire cutters?’ Rose turned off the engine as they swung the gates shut behind her, and in the darkness and sudden quiet she realized how hard her heart was pounding. She sat taking long, deep breaths.

‘They nick the telephone lines to sell the copper wire. Anyway – you all right?’ Henry suddenly appeared beside her with the torch. ‘Any problems?’

‘No, not really. It was a hell of a lot harder than I thought in this pitch black though.’

‘Better get cracking then. Open up will you? Johnny’s started bringing the stuff through. Best not to use the torch unless you really have to.’

By the time Rose had got out and unfastened the tarpaulin at the back, Henry was already on his way over with the first load from the gate at the back of the yard.

‘What’s in there?’ Rose asked.

‘Christ alone knows,’ Henry said, grunting as he hauled it up into the truck. ‘They’ll have to sort that out when we get it there. Imagine Margherita’s face when she sees this lot though, eh?’

For half an hour the two men ran back and forth with boxes, and threw in a few extras like blankets and mattresses for good measure. Rose found herself smiling at each new item that was brought across. How good all this would be for the children – for everyone at Il Rifugio!

When the floor of the truck was covered inside and part of it stacked up at the sides as well, Henry told her to close up again. He called Johnny to come and lock the gates behind them, and jumped into the cab beside her.

‘Let’s go then.’

As soon as they reached the arranged place on the Via Toledo, where they could not take the truck any further into the narrow streets, Francesco melted out of the shadows and came towards them.

‘Any trouble?’ he asked anxiously.

Rose and Henry reassured him.

‘Now we’ve got to be quick,’ Henry said. ‘You stay with the truck, Rose, and we’ll make sure there’s always someone else here too. Take this.’ She found a rifle being thrust into her hands. ‘Chances are most people are asleep, but you never know. I’ll take a few bits over and bring Falcone and Magdalena back with me. The others are staying with the kids.’

‘How’s Margherita?’ Rose asked Francesco.

‘Back with us at least. What else can we do but carry on?’

Rose nodded, and they stood in silence until the others came back. As they emerged from the complete darkness of the side street Rose could feel her heart beating faster. First she saw Magdalena. Falcone was behind her. When he came up close to the truck she saw that his hair was shorter, clipped round into his neck.

Dark though it was, she easily caught his smile and it lifted her, filling her with happiness. He looked slightly amused to see her wearing army trousers and tunic but with her hair still arranged as it had been for the dance.

‘
Buona sera
,’ he said softly, and she smiled back and said good evening to him and Magdalena.

After that, one of them always stayed while the other three carried the supplies back to the courtyard at Il Rifugio.

Only once, briefly, were she and Falcone left together.

‘Are things going well for you?’ Rose asked.

‘Il Rifugio is a very peaceful place to live – even with all the children. You understand what I mean? It’s one of the few places to make something good out of this war.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s true. In England I felt I was doing something. Everywhere was under threat, you see. But when I came here, at first the army seemed so peaceful – such an unreal life. I suppose I’m fighting the war through the children.’

‘You’ve done well tonight. It will make Margherita very happy.’

‘We’ve done it together. I’m surprised. I thought there would be trouble of some kind.’

Falcone smiled in the darkness. ‘So perhaps God is on our side after all. When are you coming next?’

‘I have a weekend. May the sixth and seventh.’

‘You know the sixth is the day of the liquefaction, at the Duomo?’

‘That business Assunta was on about?’

‘The blood of San Gennaro. Why don’t you come with me? You’ll learn a lot about Naples. Make sure you dress like an Italian.’

Rose agreed happily as the others came into view from across the road.

‘Rosa?’ Francesco approached her. ‘Margherita sends her love and says thank you a thousand times for all this. But she has another request. We need help to take Maria Grazia to the cemetery. Since Margherita has lost her own mother she feels . . .’ He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

‘Of course,’ Rose said. ‘But it might have to be at night.’

‘OK, if it has to be. The child will be born in June, so we have some time.’

‘We’ll arrange it,’ Rose said. ‘I’d better go. See you all in a fortnight.’

Magdalena gave her a kiss before she climbed up into the cab, and Falcone took her hand for a second.

She started up the great growling engine, which sounded horribly loud in the street, and waved as she moved off.

‘
Ciao!
’ she called through the window. She could just see them all waving.

During the drive back along the deserted road she was fully awake and elated. It had worked! She had really managed to bring in something they needed. It made her feel more a part of the place. And he had been proud of her – that was what seemed to matter most of all. She shivered, half with cold, half with excitement.

Soon after four-thirty she was undressed and in bed.

As usual they were discussing and arguing almost from the moment they were together. Rose drove the truck through the darkened city on the way to the cemetery. Beside her in the cab, Falcone sat with Maria Grazia on his lap. And in the back was Henry, who had volunteered to stay and guard the truck.

‘But how can you say that?’ Rose demanded, her hands tight on the wheel. ‘Which way now?’

‘Left,’ Falcone instructed. ‘And it’s not me that says it. The Church teaches that it’s wrong ever to destroy life.’

Rose snorted. Sod the Church, she found herself thinking, but fortunately could not have said it in Italian even if she’d wanted to. Maria Grazia, about whom the conversation had started, sat holding a bunch of flowers and looking dreamily out at the shrouded streets. Occasionally she stared wonderingly up into Falcone’s face. He had been looking after the health of all the children in Il Rifugio, and hers in particular. She seemed to have formed a strong bond with him.

‘But what have they done to stop all this destruction?’ Rose asked. ‘What about Cellina? What about what happened in Rome?’

‘You don’t have to remind me,’ Falcone said bitterly.

‘OK, but apart from the war, how many women have you seen die from having too many children? You’re a doctor. You know what happens. My mother’s life was destroyed by having too many kids.’

‘But it is against nature to prevent it. Against God.’

Rose was growing ever more exasperated. ‘If your God says you should spend your life miserable, and exhausted and sick even if you can do something about it, then I don’t think much of him.’

Falcone was silent.

‘After all, it’s not the effing Pope who has all the babies, is it?’ Rose muttered in English. She often felt frustrated in Italian because she spoke more slowly and correctly. It didn’t feel natural.

‘What did you say?’

‘I just mean, what have all these rules to do with real people?’

‘It’s an ideal we’re supposed to try to live up to, however miserably we fail because we are human.’

‘You’re so sure about it, aren’t you?’

Falcone gave her a surprised look. ‘It’s all I have left. I don’t really know if I’m sure about anything any more.’

It had been the same when she went with him to the liquefaction. She had come to Naples with Tony that morning.

Summer had truly begun. The fields were full of ripening plants with chaotic vines twining along the edges. In Naples blinds were being pulled down over windows, and the street hawkers stood with newspapers draped over their heads.

‘You sure you’ll be all right?’ Tony asked. He was going to meet Lewis.

‘Perfectly, ta. Once I’ve changed out of this garb anyway. Go on. Have a good weekend.’ They kissed each other on the cheek.

By the time Rose and Falcone arrived at the cathedral in the muggy late afternoon, there was a tense, hysterical atmosphere and Rose noticed the Military Police were gathering at the edge of the crowd.

‘Do I look Italian enough?’ she murmured, half joking, to Falcone.

‘Everyone will think we are husband and wife,’ he replied mischievously and, to her embarrassment, Rose blushed.

‘But you won’t be allowed a wife if you’re going to be a priest.’

‘True. So you see, priests don’t have everything their way.’

They stood among the garlic-fed, sweating throng, Rose sickened by the stench of unwashed bodies. A few yards away, an old woman collapsed and Rose watched, helpless, as she disappeared under the feet of the overwrought crowd.

‘She’ll be killed!’ she shouted to Falcone, pointing to where the woman had fallen.

They tried to elbow their way towards her. They had nearly reached her, when two men lifted out her body, the face still and dry as parchment.

‘
Morte! Morte!
’ they yelled. Most of the faces did not even turn to look, their eyes fixed in rapt expectation on the Duomo.

‘Perhaps she died as she fell,’ Falcone said.

‘This crowd’s enough to finish anyone off,’ Rose called back. She felt shaky at the way death was taken so lightly.

At the edge of the crowd someone had started smashing shop windows and the police moved in, arms swimming through the bodies. Several people seemed to be in a trance-like state, rushing here and there where space permitted and shouting out in strange, high voices. Rose saw a crinkled old man shrieking in a shrill, unearthly tone. A yellowish froth spewed from his mouth.

She indicated to Falcone that she had something to say and he bent his ear close to her mouth. For a second she longed to kiss his dark, stubbly cheek.

‘This is horrible!’ she said. ‘Why do people believe in this?’

‘In what?’

‘In this saint who’s supposed to stop the lava flowing and keep everyone safe.’ He hadn’t saved them from the bombs after all, she thought. ‘And all these great big churches. Why don’t they use the money to help poor people?’

Falcone bent close to her and said, ‘If there weren’t any churches there’d be nowhere better for the poor to go. People need somewhere to shelter their dreams, their hopes. These people have been through so much. First the Germans, now the British and Americans. At least the Church is something constant for them to hold on to.’

‘I can see that,’ she yelled back. ‘But why not give them something better to believe in than a little bottle of blood?’

‘Sssh!’ Falcone said urgently. ‘Not here of all places. You’ll get us lynched. This is the Neapolitan way. Just watch and see, OK?’

She heard the defensive note in his voice and was ashamed of sounding so critical. After all, she loved the place, but she also wanted to understand.

It was impossible to see any of the ritual. Only the earliest and most privileged had a place inside the Duomo. The crowds in the streets could do nothing but wait for the news.

Bursts of shouting could be heard near the doors of the cathedral. Sometimes a surge ran through the crowd, a powerful ripple forcing them towards the building, crushing the people in front. Sharp elbows dug into Rose. With each terrifying sweep forward she was afraid she too would trip and be swept underfoot. Then everyone would fall into a doom-filled silence again. The liquefaction was a long time coming.

Soon after eight a cry went up. The miracle had taken place! Slowly, reluctantly, as they heard later. But it had happened. A collective sigh almost like a breeze passed through the crowd before voices all around them, cracked and hoarse from thirst and tension, were raised in jubilation and relief.

Rose turned, smiling, to Falcone, and saw to her surprise that he was standing with his eyes closed. She bit back what she was going to say, not wanting to intrude.

The rejoicing of the crowd was in the end fairly muted, and soon everyone began to move away.

‘Let me take your arm,’ Falcone said rather formally as they set off. ‘Otherwise you may get lost.’

Rose linked her arm through his dark-skinned one, intensely conscious of every contact of her flesh with his. She looked up at his thoughtful face, which wore an expression of slight puzzlement.

‘So are we safe for another year?’ she asked as they walked slowly down the Via Tribunali.

‘Only until September,’ he replied, looking down at her with smiling eyes. ‘The liquefaction happens twice every year.’

‘Oh, blimey,’ Rose said. In English.

‘Don’t fall asleep for God’s sake,’ she hissed at Henry as they climbed out at the cemetery gates. ‘It’s more than my life’s worth.’

‘Trust me. Anyway, you’re not going to be that long, are you?’

It was a clear night, with a few wisps of cloud covering the stars. The thin slice of moon gave little light. Crickets were loud in the scrubby vegetation as the three of them slipped away from the truck which Rose had parked in the dense shadows outside the main cemetery entrance. Maria Grazia walked between them, holding tightly on to Falcone with one hand, and on to her flowers with the other, her back very straight to balance the weight of her pregnancy. The main iron gates were chained and padlocked, but to one side of them a stiff-hinged wooden door in the wall was left open for late visitors.

Inside the cemetery, Rose became aware of huge shapes around them, the towering old mausoleums of the wealthy with their roofs and doors and plaques. For a few seconds Falcone switched on the torch Henry had given them, and shadows leapt and shuddered up their walls. Rose saw that many of the graves were decorated with pictures of the dead and bright sprays of red and white gladioli.