Birmingham Rose (50 page)

‘Without Margherita I think I would have fallen apart.’

‘But you married – your English husband? I knew that. When I heard, it made things easier for me in a way. To think that you were really taken from me. That you loved someone else.’

‘No,’ Rose said bleakly. ‘That was my mistake. And I say that more for his sake than mine. I could never give him what he really deserved from me. I had learned what love was before that and I could never forget it. However much I tried not to think of you, you took something from me that I was never able to give again, to him or anyone.’

He turned to look at her and she saw his eyes were full of pain. ‘Rosa – come here.’

And they were in each other’s arms, he rocking her gently as she laid her wet face against his chest, his own tears falling on her hair.

‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he said. ‘All this time you have felt so much . . . And sitting here now I feel so close to you, as if I saw you only last week.’

‘I feel it too,’ she said through her tears. ‘Paulo – what will happen to you?’

‘I think I stopped being a priest in the way they define it a long time ago. When my conscience could no longer stomach some of the teachings, but I was expected to act as if I believed absolutely that they were God’s laws. It’s a sickening position to be in. Only I hadn’t yet found the courage to let go of it. But now . . .’

She turned her face up to his and they looked into each other’s eyes before they kissed, at first soft, quick touches of their lips, each still full of wonder at the other’s presence.

Their hands began to rediscover each other’s bodies. Rose wanted to touch every part of him: the soft curve of skin at the back of his neck, his shoulders, his warm flesh under the rough shirt, and she felt his hands moving hungrily over her hair, down her back and round to her breasts which ached for his touch.

In moments they were taken over by their desire for each other. He lifted her on to his lap and she sat astride him, her skirt riding up round her waist. She could feel his hardness pressing beneath her and his face was taut with the urgency of it.

She took his face between her palms, steadying him. ‘I don’t want you to regret this.’

‘Never. This is not what I regret.’

When he came up into her their cheeks were wet with tears again before either of them had climaxed. Rose held Falcone tightly as he came, his body shuddering, hands gripping her back as if in pain. As she reached the height of her own pleasure she cried out, ‘I can’t bear it’ and heard him making reassuring sounds as if to a child.

They clung to each other for a long time as their breathing slowed, her cheek pressed against his, and he still deep inside her.

Afterwards they sat very close, talking until shadows slipped over them and cooled them as the night drew in and mosquitoes whined round their heads. There was so much to share, to tell of their lives.

When it had grown almost completely dark, Rose got up, stiffly and reluctantly. ‘If I don’t go now I shan’t even catch the last train back.’

It was not easy to move away from this place where the communication had grown up between them again, from roots which had never been destroyed.

‘Can you come again?’ Falcone asked with sudden awkwardness. ‘Bring your daughter so that I can see her?’

‘I’ll bring her tomorrow. But then you must come and see Francesco and Margherita. They’ll think I’ve deserted them. Are you allowed to?’

Falcone shrugged. ‘I suppose so. If not, then it will be just one more transgression to add to all the others.’

They stood at the top, reluctant to take the first step, as if fearful that going back down to the rest of the world might destroy what had happened there that evening.

‘Look – I’ll have to go.’ She could see his eyes watching her, the faint remainder of evening light shining in their dark surface.

‘Don’t leave me again,’ she said.

Falcone moved towards her. ‘My love.’

And then they held each other, very gently this time, like old, fragile friends, standing together between the dark shapes of the trees in the scented night air of the mountain.

Margherita and Francesco were both waiting up for her, though it was very late by the time she let herself into the flat. She had long missed the last bus to Pozzuoli and had had to take a taxi.

They were very relieved to see her, and the glow on her face was unmistakable to both of them as she walked in, startled to find them both up. Margherita was watching Rose’s face intently and Francesco handed her a glass of wine.

‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Come on – what happened?’

‘Rosa?’ Margherita said more cautiously. ‘Holy Mother – what have you both got yourselves into this time?’

Rose put her glass down. ‘One moment. I just need to go to my room. I’d like you to do something for me.’

She stayed long enough to kiss Hilda and return to them carrying a flat package.

‘Francesco, have you still got your record player?’

She smiled when he nodded in reply. ‘Play this for me then.’

And she drew out his old gift to her: the long unplayed recording of ‘J’attendrai’.

The voice she could hear shouting somewhere in the house was unmistakable, and though it was impossible to make out a word of what was being said, she smiled to herself in amusement.

It must have been quite a house once, she thought, examining it before going right up close. Certainly more promising than she’d expected when she was travelling out here on the train. All those drab little towns north of Naples! Cellina itself was one such town: small, poor and more or less featureless, except for one redeeming sight, a little church she had caught a glimpse of, with a vivid turquoise dome. Otherwise the place seemed to consist only of that one square, the Piazza Garibaldi, streets of ill-kempt houses and a few dismal shops.

But this house, out towards the more peaceful western edge of the town, reassured her. The doctor’s house. It stood detached, and behind it was an orchard, planted with a mixture of citrus and apricot trees. The place was in need of some repair, of course, but these things took time – and money.

What pleased her most about the front of the house was the tiled plaque obviously newly attached to the wall beside the front door. In dark green letters on a cream background it read, ‘
ORFANOTROFIO DIANA
–
ORANGE DIANA
’.

She banged on the heavy brass door knocker, and as she did so caught sight of a man, stooping under the weight of a heavy box of vegetables, hurrying round the side of the house with an annoyed expression on his face. He flung the box into his little three-wheeler truck, and started up its rough, coughing engine to rev off down the road.

As she watched, the door opened

He looked different from how she had imagined, more gentle and approachable, and certainly more casual, in his cotton trousers and open-necked shirt. Not at all her image of an Italian doctor. Despite Rose’s descriptions she had visualized someone in a suit and perhaps rather aloof. Instead – what warmth in those eyes! Although slightly startled, they already held a welcome.

‘Dr Falcone? I’m Catherine Harper-Watt.’

His face creased into a delightful smile. In awkward English he said, ‘Of course. We wait for you.’ He beckoned in that Italian manner, almost as if shooing her away. ‘Please come.’

As she stepped into the house she heard the voice again: ‘Paulo –
chi e?
. . . Oh Catherine it
is
you. At last!’

Rose ran forward and the two women flung their arms round each other.

‘Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come to see us!’

‘I heard you even before I arrived,’ Catherine told her teasingly. ‘You seem to be familiar enough with the language to hold your own!’

Rose chuckled, translating what Catherine had said to Falcone.

He also laughed, shrugging in mock despair. ‘You should tell her that now you’ve learned to swear in Italian as well there’s no stopping you!’

Rose repeated what he said. ‘It’s just that bloke who comes round delivering the veg. He always tries to palm off all the old frowsty stuff on me. I’m sure it’s because he thinks I’m a foreigner and I won’t notice. So I gave him what for this time. Anyway, come on through and let’s get you settled. I’m dying to hear all the news.’

Falcone took Catherine’s bags to her room, and the three of them went through to a huge, white-tiled kitchen at the back of the house. The room was slightly clinical with its grey lino on the floor, and a huge white sink and steel range. But there was a pot simmering on the top of it which was homely, and on the windowsill above the sink stood several flowering plants.

Four children, all between the ages of two and four, were sitting at a large wooden table in the centre, tucking into thick chunks of bread. Watching them was a plump-faced young woman who was sitting with her rounded arms resting on the table. The children fell silent at the sight of Catherine, their brown eyes watching her every move as their little cheeks bulged like hamsters’ with the bread.

‘So these are part of the family,’ Catherine said. ‘I shall have to learn all their names.’

‘This is Anna Lucia,’ Rose said, indicating the young woman, who nodded and smiled back amiably. ‘She works here now every day except Sunday. We couldn’t do without her.’

Rose placed a bottle and some glasses on the table.

‘There are nine children here so far – and Hilda, of course. The older ones are at school and we do the best we can with the rest. There’s about room for a couple more.’

Falcone put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. ‘Shall we take them out for a run about when they’ve finished? Then you can talk.’

Catherine watched smiling as the little ones all climbed down from the table and followed Falcone and Anna Lucia out of the door.

‘You seem to have got yourselves organized quite speedily,’ Catherine said, accepting a glass of wine and some of the bread.

Rose looked at her gratefully. ‘We couldn’t have done it without your help.’

‘And the help of some worthy WI women in the Manchester area,’ Catherine reminded her. ‘They’ve been quite fired up by the idea of this place. You have a little money from the town now?’

‘Yes. That’s something. You’ve come at a good time.’ Rose sat down. ‘We’ve just heard that Paulo’s registered to practise again, so now he can go back to what he’s meant to be doing. It’s a bit of a relief too, because the money his father left is all but gone. There’ve been so many extras to get the place going.’

‘And for your wedding.’

Rose laughed. ‘That didn’t set us back much. It must’ve been one of the quietest weddings ever to happen in Italy! Which was fine by me and it was all we could afford. And another reason was that even after the dispensation came through so we could get married it took him quite a while to get used to the idea that he wasn’t a priest.

‘I didn’t care what we did so long as I could just get back over here with him. You’d think with all the time since the war that another couple of years wouldn’t make much odds, but I’ve never known two years go so slowly!’

‘You were very patient,’ Catherine told her. She leaned forward to take off her soft fawn cardigan. ‘How beautifully warm it is here! And you’re looking positively marvellous, my dear!’

Rose was dressed in a frock in her favourite navy, a colour which always flattered her dark looks, and her hair was taken up in a swinging ponytail. Catherine was noticing for the first time just how beautiful Rose could look. Her face had always been attractive, arresting even, but now, the one ingredient which had been lacking before – the bloom of happiness – had transformed her.

‘You must work hard with all these children, but I must say you don’t look at all worn down by it.’

‘Well, we’ve got Anna Lucia. And Paulo’s been around a lot – though that’ll change when he’s back to being a doctor. I s’pose it is tough, but I love doing it, that’s all. Doing what you like isn’t too difficult is it?’

When Catherine had settled into the tiny spare bedroom, Rose showed her round. It was a spacious house, with five bedrooms and plenty of room to accommodate the growing ‘family’ downstairs.

‘The surgery will be here,’ Rose said, opening up a room beside the front door. ‘It was where Paulo’s father worked, so he can soon get it all set up again.’

The room must have been much as the older Dr Falcone had left it, with shelves of books and an old wooden desk with a crucifix hanging behind it. Against the opposite wall stood a high, flat examination bed.

After their little tour she led Catherine out of the back door of the house. They sat out on a terrace where so much grass had grown up between the stones that they were almost completely hidden. Rose found some old wooden chairs on which there was still some peeling brown paint.

The scents of honeysuckle and other flowers that Catherine could not identify filled the air, and pink bougainvillea burst its colour all over the wall along one side of the garden. On the dry grass under the trees Falcone was entertaining the children by teaching them to turn somersaults, while Anna Lucia stood by giggling.

‘He’s very good with them.’ Catherine watched Rose carefully as she looked over at her husband, happy to see the love so plain in her eyes. She had come to feel as protective towards Rose as if she were her own daughter and she was anxious to see her happy.

‘He’s so much freer now – laughs more than I’ve ever known. Hilda loves him, she really does. He’s the first proper dad she’s ever had. Of course her real father was special to her, but he could never play with her. And she’s teaching him English! I think she’s picking up Italian quicker though.’ She turned to Catherine. ‘Tell me how things are at home. Any news?’

‘Well, most of it’s reasonably good. I stopped by in Birmingham on the way. Grace sends all her love of course, and . . .’ She paused. ‘I asked her if she’d like to come out and see you both.’

‘You mean . . . ?’

Catherine held up a hand, embarrassed. ‘I’d love to help. Don’t say any more.’