Last Voyage of the Valentina(58)

“He’s had to go to France on business. He’s organizing Viv’s book tour. She’s big in France.” Margo imagined they had had a row. Alba was not at all her usual imperious self.

During the pudding, without waiting for Cook to leave the room, Alba dropped her bombshell. “I’m going to Italy to find my mother’s family,” she said. Margo looked horrified. Henry, Caroline, and Miranda held their breath.

“I see,” said Thomas.

“I feel that since you won’t tell me about her, I will have to find out for myself. As Viv says, ‘God only helps those who help themselves,’ so I’m counting on his guidance too. Reverend Weatherbone would approve, I’m sure.” Her tone was flippant.

“Darling,” Margo began, trying not to sound flustered. “Are you sure you want to delve into the past?”

“Absolutely,” Alba replied.

“Surely it’s better left where it is.”

“Why?” Her question was delivered with unexpected serenity and Margo felt a fool for having said it.

“Because,” she stammered.

“Because, my dear,” interjected her husband, “it all happened a very long time ago. But if it is what you want then we cannot stop you. We can only advise you against it. For your own happiness.”

“I can’t be happy unless I have gone back to my roots,” Alba explained, surprised at her own composure.

“Do you know where those roots are?” he asked.

“Incantellaria,” she responded. He suddenly felt dizzy.

“Incantellaria,” echoed Lavender. The whole table turned their eyes to the old lady. “There is only death and unhappiness to be found in Incantellaria.”

“Would you like another slice of tart?” asked Margo, offering her the plate. Then, suddenly noticing that Cook was still in the room, she added, “Cook, please could you bring us some more cream.” She was aware that the little silver jug was full, but she hadn’t been able to think of anything else. “I don’t think we should discuss this in front of the staff,” she said to her husband. “In fact, I don’t think we should discuss this at all. Alba knows our feelings. Your family is here. Why go all the way to Italy to dig up a whole lot of ghosts?”

Alba was weary. “I’m going to bed,” she said, getting up. “I’m going to go with or without your support. I just thought it right that I should tell you. After all, Daddy, she was your wife!”

Thomas watched his daughter leave the room. Instead of feeling that terrible hopelessness, he felt a sense of release. It was no longer his responsibility. She was no longer a child. If she wanted to go, he could not stop her.

After dinner, Thomas retreated into his study to smoke a cigar and drink a glass of brandy. He sat in his leather chair and stared up at the portrait of his father, until his vision blurred and his eyes began to glisten. Behind the dignified pose of Hubert Arbuckle lay the portrait of Valentina, a dark secret.

Yet she wasn’t forgotten. Thomas had tried but failed to forget her. Now the scent of figs reached him once again as if she were bending over his chair to plant a kiss on his temple. The lookout tower loomed out of the nostalgic mists of his mind and he was finally returning to Incantellaria.





14




Italy, May 1945

T homas felt a rush of emotion as the boat sped into the little harbor of Incantellaria. He looked up to the top of the hill where the old lookout tower was silhouetted against the sky. He remembered Valentina as she had been. Her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes full of sadness, her cheeks enflamed with their lovemaking. She had appeared like that in his dreams too. Beguiling, mysterious, like a beam of light that was impossible to hold.

Once they had parted he had fought in the taking of the island of Elba, before being transferred to the Adriatic. On August 15, 1944, he had commanded his torpedo boat in the invasion of southern France, the lesser-known sequel to the more famous Normandy landings—D-day. Immediately after the death of his brother, Thomas hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. He had engaged in combat with a recklessness seen only in those valiant men whose lives mean little to them. Then he had met Valentina and suddenly life was precious once more. Every skirmish had filled him with terror. Every time he had boarded enemy cargo ships, he had crossed himself and thanked God for preserving him another day, for each day inevitably brought him closer to her. His will to live was so strong that his courage was now greater than it had been before, for it was no longer flawed with recklessness.

Afterward, Thomas was sent to the Gulf of Genoa where he patrolled the coast. He wrote to Valentina whenever he could. His written Italian wasn’t good, but he was able to communicate the longing in his heart in spite of his poor grammar and limited vocabulary. He told her how he gazed at the portrait he had drawn of her, up on the hill, beside the crumbling old watchtower, where the love they made had fused them together in an unbreakable bond. He wrote of their future. He would marry her in the pretty chapel of San Pasquale and take her back to England, where he would ensure that she lived like a queen with everything she could ever want. He received nothing from her. Only perfumed letters and food parcels from Shirley. Then one evening in September, after having successfully sunk an enemy merchant ship, he returned to base at Leghorn to find a letter waiting for him. The writing was curled and childish and foreign. The postmark was Italian.