“Take him, then.” She sat down again. “Here, you can clear these things away, and earn your keep for once.”
“But he isn’t allowed out of that monkey cage on a Sunday, is he?”
“He can go anywhere within twenty miles of the camp, all the Italian prisoners can, now the war’s over, only they’re on parole. The Wild Brooks is only about fifteen miles from here.”
“All right, then, I’ll ask him. There’s no harm in asking. We can practise our lessons in the bus.”
“You don’t go by bus, you go by train. And, Sylvia, you’d better dress yourself a bit quieter than you usually do on your Sundays off. I expect you’ll get stared at, an English girl out with an Italian, and the ignorant sort might pass remarks. Take my advice and do your hair in a bun, too. I shouldn’t like to tell you what the old lady said your hair looked like, the last time she was over here.”
“I know; a tart,” said Sylvia defiantly; she cast down her eyes, but her mouth twitched with mischief.
“S’sh!” with an expression of distaste.
“It isn’t a bad word, Mrs. Hoadley, it’s only short for sweetheart.”
“It means a bad woman, and that’s enough. It’s a pretty old word, come to that,” she went on drearily, “but it’s been spoilt by men, like everything else,” and suddenly she put her hands up to her face and began to cry.
“Why, whatever—! Here, cheer up, have some more tea, do,” said Sylvia, nervously moving the cups and saucers about and keeping a half-frightened gaze upon her, “Do you feel bad?”
“I’m all right; leave me alone, thank you, Sylvia,” indistinctly from behind her hands. “You go and mix the chickens’ food. I’ll be better in a minute.” She made no attempt to explain what was the matter. Sylvia, after aimlessly moving the crockery for a little longer, went away.
She spoke precisely the truth when she said of Fabrio and herself: “Him and me don’t get on too badly nowadays,” although Fabrio never expressed interest or pleasure in their lessons together, or showed disappointment when owing to some mischance they had to be missed; never answered or displayed anger when Emilio leered and hinted and tapped his nose as they passed Sylvia in the yard. He only worked silently and diligently at his reading and his English, sitting apart in the crowded hut at night while the other men gambled or sang or gossiped, with his fingers in his ears and his eyes fixed upon the book before him, while his patient peasant’s lips repeated a score of times the craggy English consonants so different from his own cooing, liquid Italian vowels. Sometimes he would push the book angrily aside and join his companions in whatever was going on, but he always returned to his studies, and every day, almost every hour, his English became more fluent.
Sylvia had been very shocked to discover that he could barely read. She had believed that everybody could read except the Indians, who were forcibly prevented by British Imperialists from learning, and Spanish Republicans who were Kept Under by the Church. However, her strong sense of the shamefulness of Fabrio’s case prevented her from expressing surprise or making inflammatory comments; she would as soon have thought of lecturing him upon the odour from his unwashed clothes as upon his ignorance, and she taught him to read without once jeering at him or becoming impatient with his slowness. She truly pitied this fellow-being sitting in intellectual twilight, and her pity silenced her boisterous tongue and softened her didactic impulse.
And for his part, Fabrio now pitied her—La Scimmia—Monkey-face. Heaven had bestowed upon her a head of hair glossy and brown as the chestnuts of Italy, and a white skin, and what use did she make of these gifts? Dyed the one, like the women who flaunted their sin in the streets, and painted the other as they painted their cheeks. And yet, he felt that La Scimmia was not like those shameless girls: she was not even like his own elder sisters, who had slept with strange men when the times were hard and there was no money in the house: that had seemed to make little difference to Nella and Maria, when once they had confessed to Father Domenico and received absolution and done their penance, and they had been cheerful and gay until the next time; and yet she was not like his little unmarried sisters either; she was not like any woman or girl he had ever known; La Scimmia was La Scimmia, and only like herself, and he pitied her.
He accepted her invitation to accompany her to the Wild Brooks with complacence, for Sylvia told him that the old people had taken a fancy to him and wanted very much to see him again. She made the proposed visit sound like a kindness from two gay, important young people towards two poor old geezers who might not be here long. He liked the idea of the day’s outing, too, and he even liked the idea of spending a holiday with La Scimmia, but oh! how he hoped that she would not wear the trousers and that faded rag upon her head! Everyone would pity him. And if she cast off the rag, if she bared that high brass roll of her terrible hair, so harsh and conspicuous, then everyone would stare at her and say that he was out with a loose woman.
The situation was difficult. However, dawn on the Sunday morning was windy and bright; light sped swiftly up into the sky instead of creeping up as it usually did here, and the crimson clouds turned to gold; heaven was full of them; and in the woods surrounding the camp Fabrio heard the cries of birds as he dashed his face and breast with icy water and blinked his stinging eyes beneath the veil of wet. All around him were his fellow prisoners, naked to the waist, laughing or sullen or shouting to one another as they splashed and shuddered when the cold April wind blew on their dripping bodies. He dressed carefully, and thoroughly blacked his boots, and went off with the others to Mass. Holiday, pleasure, freedom: the words rang in his ears and made his blood dance with joy.
He was to meet La Scimmia near the railway station at eleven o’clock and the old people were to give them their dinner. He remembered Mrs. Hoadley’s golden earrings shaped like baskets of roses, which he had greatly admired, and wondered if she were rich. Perhaps she might die soon and leave him her money, enough to buy a piece of land of his own (for his father’s farm would go to his elder brother Giuseppe) and a wireless and some books. Then, when he was set free from this accursed country—where it was not even possible, because they were kind, to take comfort from hating the people—he would go home and marry Maria, who would be only too pleased to have him, and begin to save money for their children.
He walked on down the road, under the tall budding hazel bushes and by the blackthorn now fading as the may came on, between pools of fresh water, for it had rained last night, it was always raining over here. He wore his long brown overcoat closely buttoned against the wind and the black gloves issued by H.M. Government, but no hat, for he had lost that whilst stalking rabbits with Emilio, and his face was grave but his eyes danced, like the eyes of a child going off to a treat.
The shop near the station was open for the sale of newspapers, and in passing he caught sight of a little card of small bright objects in the window. He went up and peered in; they were brooches made of tiny flowers in white, blue and yellow, and they seemed to him very beautiful. He had one and ninepence halfpenny in his pocket; he jingled it thoughtfully, then he went into the shop.
As he came out, he saw a figure coming down the road towards him who must, by her height and the colour of her hair and the fact that she was waving to him, be La Scimmia, but he did not recognise her. No, at first he did not recognise her; for this was a young lady who was coming to meet him, wearing a grey silky dress under a plain black coat, and gloves, and her golden hair parted at one side and smoothly rolled low at the back of her head. Her broad white brow, her blue eyes—how innocent they were, how young and girlish she looked, how good! And he went forward to meet her, smiling and holding carefully in his hand the little box containing the brooch.
He was so set upon giving it to her at once, and so relieved at her quiet, elegant appearance, that he did not observe that she looked defiant and cross; also, the spring sun was in his eyes as they met. He bowed to her.
“Good morning,” said Fabrio. “This is
for you,” and he held out the little box.
Sylvia was surprised. She was on the defensive: she had only put on her quietest dress and rearranged her hair after a sharp reminder from Mrs. Hoadley before she set out, and this had meant re-dressing in a hurry. She had been prepared to vent her annoyance, and also her self-consciousness at appearing in this corny get-up, by an even louder manner than usual. She felt that the soft curve of her hair, the white daisies scattered over her sober dress, drew attention to a part of her nature which she preferred to ignore, and which she did not want to display to Fabrio. But she was only nineteen, and it was a lovely morning, and he was offering her a present, and she was not an ill-tempered girl. Her irritation vanished. However, the amazed admiration in his eyes embarrassed her, and she lowered her own as she held out her little gloved hand to receive the box.
“In my country when a man take a lady out,” explained Fabrio slowly, drawing himself up, “he should give her the flowers. But there are none in this country” (casting a glance of peasant scorn at the hedgerow which was the natural place whence to procure flowers; no one bought flowers except silly rich foreigners), “so I give you this-a flowers in case.”
She exclaimed with pleasure, thanked him, and after some posing of the brooch against her coat, pinned it on her bosom. They set out on the short walk to the station in amiable conversation. When they came to take their fares an embarrassing moment threatened because Fabrio now had only threepence halfpenny in his pocket; he had been so ravished away by the brooch that he had forgotten the fares, for which in any case he would not have had enough; but Sylvia quickly produced money which she assured him was a present from Mrs. Hoadley, a contribution to the day’s pleasure, and although he was at first inclined to be haughty, he unbent when once they were in the train.
He did not smile all the time, but it was plain that he was enjoying the excursion. He eagerly watched every change of scene from the window and sometimes he glanced at her for confirmation that she had seen what had amused or interested himself. Once or twice she caught his eyes fixed upon her, but there was nothing in their grave blue gaze to embarrass her, and she did not see their expression when he watched her unconscious profile. She was enjoying the change of air, and beginning also to enjoy the change from tough land girl to quiet young lady. There was pleasure, as if she were acting, in subduing her voice, in keeping her hands at rest in her lap, in smiling instead of screaming with laughter. Even the paint upon her mouth was a deep rose hue, soft and fresh and in keeping with her part.
But while she joked with Fabrio and commented upon the scenery, her mind was busy with a fairy story in which the film star Van Johnson, happening to be in Amberley that day, saw her in the village and immediately chose her to play opposite him in his new film. She saw his face; she smiled up at him, and he moved towards her; he held her preciously, tenderly in his arms and swept her person up and down with his eyes, and then they were locked together in a long, thrilling, crazy kiss: his job forgotten; her job forgotten; everything forgotten but love, love, love.
An unconscious sigh passed between her parted lips as the dream faded: then she looked up to meet the gaze of Fabrio. He leant towards her.
“You feel cold?” he inquired politely. “You would like-a the window to be closed?”
She looked at him for a moment in silence; it always took her a little time to emerge from these daydreams, and while the miasma was slowly drifting away from her she saw, not the face of the young man sitting opposite to her, but the face of the shadow-lover.
She blinked, then gently smiled.
“It’s all right, comrade. I guess I was just … dreaming,” and she finished off with another sigh. But Fabrio only smiled, and folded his arms and leant back comfortably. La Scimmia! There she was, sitting opposite to him, transformed into exactly the kind of girl he liked best: big and strong and able to bear many children and work hard, but also modestly and prettily dressed, and looking soft and kind. La Scimmia! but no; he would not call her that name any longer or think of her by it either: he would use her own pretty name, Sylvia, and now, from this day onwards, everything between him and this big, beautiful, gentle Sylvia, who looked like the statue of Our Lady in the church at Santa Margherita, would be quite changed, quite different. How surprised, how very surprised, Emilio would be when he saw that they no longer jeered or spoke roughly to one another! He would say that they loved each other, perhaps. Well, he, Fabrio, would not mind. And the summer was coming: soon they would all be harvesting, standing by the blue-painted waggon amidst the wheat in the hot sun, binding up the sheaves. Fabrio suddenly felt the heat, the glare, the summer scents, all about him, and began to whistle. The train stopped; they had arrived.
In the distance amidst bright green meadows he saw a castle. It was not very large; it did not stand on a high hill as did the one at home in San Angelo; but it was undoubtedly a castle, towering above the village that clustered at its feet and looking out ever the level fields towards the big hills a mile or so away. He pointed, exclaiming:
“Castello!”
“Yes, Amberley Castle, it’s nothing but an old ruin,” she said carelessly. “There’s a much better one at Lewes, you must have seen that.”
He nodded, but did not take his eager gaze from the castle as they went down the platform and out of the station. The ancient stones were pale brown, and he could plainly see the slit windows and irregular outline of the battlements. The day had now clouded over and all the landscape lay under a clear melancholy light, in which the far-off details were distinct; the sky was packed with low violet clouds but behind them light seemed about to burst through and flood the strong dark blue of the distant hills, the lowering grey-green of those near at hand, the shining river banding along the water-meadows, with brilliance. Everywhere the great delicate elms guarding cottage or farm in their shade were smothered in buds; veil-like, dazzling. And there swept across this vale of water-meadows surrounded by hills that scent which is to the nostrils what music is to the ears; a scent made up of countless odours from grass and earth and stone and water and, at this season of the year, primroses and budding bluebells and violets.
They set out along the road towards the village. Sylvia glanced brightly from side to side and admired her own feet in their country shoes. The peasants’ heritage of large extremities had been spared her, and her greedy little hands and stubby little feet were her pride.
Fabrio had been glancing over the landscape as they went and now observed:
“Sad, all this. Not cheery.”
“What do you mean, sad? It’s ever so pretty, it’ud be a regular beauty spot if everybody knew about it.”
Fabrio shook his head and vaguely waved his hand over the clear sunless prospect spread before them.
“There is no farms, there is no fields with the corn growing. There is not-a any trees with the apples or the pears.”
“It isn’t the right kind of land for growing things; it’s only fit for grazing,” and she pointed to a large meadow in which some thirty cows and fatting cattle were wandering. “It’s all the water makes it so good, Mr. Hoadley says.”
“Yes, it is sad,” he persisted, gazing about him. They had turned aside down a narrow lane winding between iron railings and lengths of low hedge, then beside a hayrick now, in the shadow of a stone wall repaired with brick. They were amidst scenes made by man, and the poetic light, the sense of slumber, that lies over this valley was slightly lessened, but still there was the impression of a beautiful decay.
“Oh well, just as you like,” she muttered, skirting an expanse of fresh black mud. “It’s a funny thing, I can’t get to like the country. It’s very interesting on the farm, I give you all that and I don’t mind the work and I love the fresh air, but I don’t feel,—oh, I don’t know. I just like it better in London. ’Course, it may be better when the summer comes. Do you like the country, Fabrio?”
He was looking with interest at the vegetables in a little garden they we
re passing, and answered with a shrug:
“What do you mean, Sylvia? I have live there for ever.”
It was true: he did not know whether he liked the country or not, because he took it for granted. Those questions of the country’s beauty, its quiet, its slow tempo compared with the city’s haste, which interest and concern a townsman had no meaning for the peasant. Sylvia thought, he’s dumber than he looks; half the time I don’t believe he’s thinking about anything at all; and at that moment they came out into Amberley.
The two pairs of young blue eyes gazed curiously up and down the silent street; the two heads covered with youth’s shining hair turned quickly, impatiently, as if in search of movement and life.
But there was none. The houses were built of time-greened stone thatched with old silver straw and were taller than those in most Sussex villages. They were shadowed here and there by a lofty tree, but the light that came down through the branches was clear and unreal as the light in a picture. There were many pheasant’s-eye narcissus, most poetic of all the flowers of spring, in the garden plots, and they dreamed motionless in the dreaming light; the cool, swooping April wind which had blown against the cheeks of Fabrio and Sylvia on the way here had died away or did not fully penetrate to this winding place, and all the windows of the cottages, large and small, were closed and dark. There was nothing pretty or bustlingly comfortable about this village. It was beautiful.
“Everybody’s at church,” said Sylvia at last, and at that moment they did see some people making their way across the large churchyard which lies beside the castle as if on their way out from the service, while a bell began to strike twelve.
“Cigarettes!” exclaimed Fabrio, slapping his bosom distractedly, “I go in a pub to buy some!” and he was hurrying away in search of one when he paused, glanced at her, and retraced his steps.