Page 55 of The Tuscan Child
He felt absurdly happy. She moved over to sit beside him and gently stroked his hand. “You are a good, kind man. I hope your wife learns to treasure you.”
They both looked up as they heard the low-pitched vibration of approaching aircraft.
“The Allies. They come to bomb the German winter line again.” She looked excited.
The noise grew in intensity until it rattled loose stones. Then there was a sudden whining noise followed by a deep, booming thud.
“They are dropping bombs,” she said. “There must be a convoy on the road.” She started in fear as a second thud came, making the whole hillside shake.
“Too close,” she exclaimed. “Hold me, Ugo. I am frightened.”
She nestled up against him and he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the softness of her hair against his cheek.
“Don’t worry. You are safe with me,” he said.
I could stay like this forever,he thought. No sooner had this thought formed itself in his head when there was a screeching whine closer still. The dull thud of the explosion made the ground tremble. Sofia screamed and clutched at Hugo, burying her face in his jacket collar as they felt the blast. Stones rained down from the damaged walls, bouncing and thudding around them. Hugo flung himself on top of her to shield her. Then the floor was tilting. The lamp fell with a crash and they were in complete darkness. He could hear and feel rubble sliding past them. It felt as if the whole chapel was imploding. They were sliding, being swept along with cascading stones. Sofia cried out. Hugo grabbed at the side of the altar and hung on for dear life while the world crumbled around him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
JOANNA
June 1973
As the procession disbanded in the piazza, we stood watching while people hurried off in all directions. I looked at Paola, wondering if we, too, would be going home.
“They go to bring the feast,” she said. “We have been invited to join the Donatelli family this year. Maria Donatelli kindly invited us because it is a long way for me to walk down to my house and then back to the piazza with the food. We will wait for them at their table.”
I followed her across the piazza to a table with a white cloth.“Famiglia Donatelli”was printed on a card. I now saw that every family had reserved a table. I looked around to see where Cosimo and Renzo would be sitting. Men were passing carrying trays of carved lamb. I watched them place the trays at tables in front of the town hall. There was no sign of Cosimo or Renzo yet. I realised that they must have been among those dressed in the robes and hoods. People were arriving at our table now, bringing huge mounds of pasta, risottos, platters of salad, breads, a big ham. I was introduced and found myself sitting amid a loud crowd of many generations. The youngest was Angelina’s daughter and the oldest a shrunken little man with no teeth whose food was cut up for him. Everyone laughed and shouted, and this was repeated at all the other tables. The noise level in the piazza was overpowering. I looked around, wondering if any occasion in England would produce such obvious joy and celebration of family. I felt uncomfortable among them, although they were kind enough to include me, constantly pressing food on me and keeping my wine glass full.
Suddenly I felt that I had to get away. I excused myself on the pretext of finding a lavatory. As I stepped into the shade at the edge of the piazza, I saw someone coming up behind me. I stepped aside to let him pass, but instead he stopped and faced me. It was Renzo. He took my wrist again, held up my hand, and compared it to his own, now wearing a ring.
“Yes, they are identical,” he said. “Incredible.” We stared at the rings, comparing them. He was still frowning, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw.
“And there are letters inside mine,” he went on. “I only noticed them yesterday. ‘HRL.’ Do you know what they mean?”
“Yes, I do. Hugo Roderick Langley. My father’s initials,” I said.
He shook his head. “So I have to agree that this ring came from your father. It’s hard to believe that he was here and he knew my mother, but now we have proof that what you say must be true. I must apologise for my rude treatment earlier.”
“There is no need to apologise. I’m just glad that somebody now believes me.”
Renzo looked at me and I nodded. He gave a little laugh. “To think we had no idea. When my father finds out, he will be so surprised.”
“Don’t tell him,” I said quickly.
He gave me a questioning look. “Why? Why should he not know?”
“Because...” I hesitated. “Because we don’t know what really happened, and until we do, I’d like to keep this to ourselves.”
I was still unsure what to do and whether I could trust Renzo. I had learned the hard way that not all men are trustworthy. Then I realised I had no way of finding out any more about my father and Sofia if I did not share some of what I knew.
“I’d like to show you something,” I said. I held up my wrist. “This medal on a ribbon was among my father’s things. I am sure that your mother gave it to him. He was not religious and would never have chosen to wear something like this.”
Renzo took my wrist again, holding it up to look at it. I was horribly aware of his touch, but he seemed not to notice that he was so close to me. “Interesting,” he said. “I’m not sure which saint this is.”
“Paola said it was Saint Rita,” I said.
He shrugged. “I’m not exactly a student of saints. The older generation believes there is a saint for every problem. Frankly I haven’t found them to be very effective in solving mine.”
