Every Mother's Son (25 page)

She forgot Fletcher’s age and began to think of him as a young man, imagining him living up at the manor house with Christopher’s other children. I shan’t want him to be considered inferior; he’s just as good as they are, and I’ll mek sure they realize that he’s ’eldest son, she thought, as if she too would be there to make decisions.

A storm began, a sudden squall of needle-sharp sleet that instantly soaked her, yet she didn’t think of turning back even though she had no clear idea of where she was heading. She continued on until the path narrowed and she had to push her way through a thicket of bushes, scratching her arms and legs. It was wet underfoot and she felt her feet sinking but still she plodded on, catching hold of reeds that were strong and tough and cut into her hands. Mebbe I’ve tekken ’wrong path in life, she thought, mebbe I should go back, p’raps call up at ’manor and tell ’em that there’s no need to mek too much of what I said. I could tell Christopher that Fletcher is able to tek care of himself, that he doesn’t need them; they’re different from us, anyway. And at that point her twisted ambition raised its head again.
But he has to acknowledge that Fletcher’s his son
.

That’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell him it’s just that I loved him – Christopher – and allus will, but I’ve kept that love hidden in my heart all these years, and it’s gone sour, mekking me resentful; yes, and why not? I’ve not had ’man I wanted and had to put up wi’ second best, so it’s not been fair. She stood holding on to the reeds, her legs in water, contemplating. I’ll go back, she decided, and clutching the reeds she started to turn round. But her feet were stuck in the squelchy mud and she stumbled up to her armpits in water.

‘It’s so cold.’ She hauled herself up on to the bank, slipping and sliding on the mud, and crawled on to the path, her clothes, arms and legs covered in river mud and green slime. ‘Must get home,’ she muttered. ‘Back to Marsh Farm. Hope ’fire’s still in; nobody will think o’ mending it, not Mr Tuke or Noah. Fletcher might; he’s a good lad. Breeding will out.’

She reached her cottage and wondered who had left the door open. The fire was almost out; she dripped water as she reached for some kindling to ignite it, then went down on her knees, trying to find warmth, and lay down on the rug. ‘Soon get warm,’ she muttered, ‘when ’fire teks hold; lads’ll be in soon and mebbe they’ll mek me a hot drink. Aye, that’ll be ’day, when pigs fly.’

Mebbe Christopher’ll come back, she thought. He’ll realize I’m telling ’truth. He’ll remember if onny he casts his mind back. I should ask him to call again and explain a bit better than I did. I was … what? Hostile. But I wanted to tell him afore it was too late. I’m not young any more and I suppose he’s not either, so he had to know. She smiled. I still think of him as a handsome lad. I should tell him that. I was allus afraid afore to tell him about how I felt.

She began to call ‘Christopher,’ but her voice was husky and sore. She was cold and shivery; someone had left the door open and the wind was blowing it and banging it against the frame. ‘That door’ll be off its hinges if somebody doesn’t shut it,’ she muttered angrily. ‘But I can’t do it, I’m stopping here in front o’ fire. Christopher!’ she called hoarsely. ‘Christopher! It’s me, Ellen. I’m sorry. It was my fault, but I loved you.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Three figures stood atop a high peak looking many miles down a twisting ribbon of a road leading into a deep and sunny valley. The sky was sapphire blue, the air crisp and cold for there was still snow on the mountain tops, so bright and white they could only gaze at them with narrowed eyes. Daniel stood in the middle of the group and put his hand on Charles’s shoulder, then turned and smiled at Beatrice, who had slipped her hand into his, gently squeezing it.

‘Nearly there, Daniel,’ she murmured. ‘Italy. Your homeland?’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Perhaps my beginnings, but England is my homeland.’

‘It’s incredible,’ Charles said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘So beautiful, so awe-inspiring. I wish I could paint,’ he added for the hundredth time.

‘We should make camp soon,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s cold up here and it’ll get colder when ’night comes on. Let’s drop down and find a sheltered spot so ’ponies can rest and we can eat.’ Throughout the journey, Daniel had insisted that the animals should rest and feed before they did; at midday they grazed on the lush mountain grass, and were walked through running streams to drink and cool their feet. In the evenings, after lighting a small fire, he checked their feet and made sure they were not saddle sore.

They had ridden towards the Jungfrau and admired the lofty mountain from the base, but had gone no further as there were hordes of tourists in the region: serious walkers, riders, holidaymakers arriving in carriages to have their photographs taken with the towering peaks in the background. It was time to move on.

On the way to Brig-Glis they had been fortunate enough to find cheap accommodation in several localities, where villagers were pleased to offer them beds for a few coins and gave Beatrice the consideration of a separate room, sometimes no bigger than a cupboard, but sufficient for her privacy. Mostly, however, they slept outdoors as the nights at those lower altitudes were warm, and after a simple meal of eggs, if they had managed to buy any, bread and sausage eaten by the light of the flickering flames of the fire, Daniel and Charles climbed into their sleeping sacks and Beatrice into hers inside her tent and fell asleep to the sound of nocturnal creatures, the nickering of the ponies and the donkey as they grazed.

When they reached the city of Brig they had decided to find lodgings and stay a day or two to rest themselves and the animals.

The municipal town hall held records for trade and community organizations and Beatrice, with her understanding of German, enquired of a desk clerk about the road into Italy over the Simplon Pass. He told them that a new road had been built to replace an ancient one that had been used in the past by smugglers and traders carrying salt from the Mediterranean; but, he suggested, as they were on horseback they could use the Stockalper mule trail on the south side of the pass, which would take them less than three days, including a rest in Simplon village itself.

‘What do you think?’ Daniel had asked the other two. ‘Sounds exciting, but it might be demanding.’

‘We should do it,’ Beatrice said.

‘Are you sure, Bea?’ Charles asked in some concern. ‘It could be tiring.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘As long as we rest the horses and Modesty and don’t overtax them.’

It was Beatrice Daniel had been thinking of when he asked the question; she seemed to be tireless, but looking at the map they were given he came to the conclusion that the route might be exhausting for them all. And it had been, for there were times when they had to walk in single file, leading the ponies with Modesty following behind, especially when passing through the narrow Gondo Gorge with its stony path, steep granite walls and rickety wooden bridges over the many rushing mountain streams. High above them was the route built originally by Napoleon to transport his army and supplies; occasionally they caught glimpses of a post-chaise carrying tourists and locals across the pass to Domodossola. They met hikers carrying packs on their backs and stopped to greet and exchange information on the perils to look out for, and both Daniel and Charles said how much Beatrice had contributed with her language skills, for there were Italians, Germans and Swiss travelling the same route.

‘You’re a treasure, Beatrice,’ Daniel told her. ‘How would we have managed without you?’

Beatrice had simply shrugged her shoulders and said wryly, ‘I knew you would need me.’

When it rained, as it did suddenly and torrentially several times, they had sought and found accommodation in mountain hamlets; these settlements were now taking on a look of Italy with their slate roofs and some Italian-speaking residents. But on this last day, as they rode by the rushing waters of the River Diveria that ran between Switzerland and Italy, they found a sheltered grassy spot beneath a group of larch and stone pines where they could erect Beatrice’s tent; they made a fire and tethered the animals to a nearby tree.

That night Daniel lay sleepless in his warm sack with the hood pulled over his head and wondered what tomorrow might bring as they dropped down into Gondo and crossed the border into Italy.

It was a large country with a language he didn’t understand. It’s a fool’s errand hoping to find anyone with the name of Orsini, he thought. Young George said we must go to Rome, but he only said that because it’s ’capital. Or he mebbe meant that we might find information. But Rome was a long way off, and after an earlier discussion with Charles and Beatrice he had agreed that Milan, being nearer, would be an easier target for their enquiries.

If I don’t find anything, he mused, I’ll try to be content, for if nothing else it’s been a wonderful journey and one I might never have taken but for this obsession with finding my grandfather; but most of all I’ve been with my good friend Charles and – best of all – with Beatrice, the only woman I’ll ever love, and ’memory of that will last me all my life. I know, deep down, that she can never be mine, for I can never, ever, be deserving of her.

He woke at dawn, when a sliver of daylight touched his eyelids just as a nutcracker somewhere nearby began its morning call. As the insistent
tra, tra, tra
pulled him into full wakefulness, he realized he had come to a decision overnight:
not Milan!
Granny Rosie said Marco was a seaman, so why not head for ’nearest port? He sat up, leaned out of his sleeping sack and rummaged in his rucksack, which he always kept close by him. He brought out the map and opened it, and by the movement disturbed a mountain hare that had been feeding close by. He watched it for a moment until it took fright and sped away.

They would cross the border into Domodossola, a frontier town that linked the two countries. His finger moved slowly down the leg of Italy. Milan, if they went there, was to the east, but instead they could head south to the port of Genoa. Yes, he thought, feeling a sense of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Is it instinct that’s telling me that’s what we should do?

A sound disturbed him and he looked up to see Beatrice coming across the meadow towards the camp site. She was fully dressed, wearing her boots, a warm jacket, her fur hat and a cream silk scarf.

‘Good morning. You’re up early,’ he said.

‘Yes. I woke whilst it was still dark so I got up and dressed and sat on a high rock to watch dawn break.’ She crouched down beside him. ‘It was so beautiful when the light lit the mountain peaks. It coloured them rose,’ she murmured. ‘I saw a lynx, and what might have been an ibex, but it was too high for me to be sure, and the flora is so lovely, edelweiss and deep blue gentians and so many other alpine plants whose names I don’t know, their flowers just unfurling.’

Daniel watched her as her face glowed with pleasure. ‘I saw a hare outside your tent,’ he said, for something to say, and she nodded. She had seen it too.

He cleared his throat. ‘Beatrice, I couldn’t get to sleep last night, I’d so many things running through my head, but this morning I woke up with a different plan.’ He told her why he had decided against Milan and wanted to head towards Genoa instead.

‘Of course,’ she agreed. Leaning towards him, she traced her finger down the map, a wisp of her hair tickling his face. ‘It makes perfect sense. Genoa is a principal port, and the travelling time must be about the same.’

‘What’s happening?’ Charles sat up and leaned on his elbow, yawning. ‘Why are you up so early, Bea?’

‘Watching the dawn, slugabed,’ she laughed, her eyes bright with merriment. ‘But now I suggest we set off and head down the valley and have breakfast in the village.’ She pointed up the rocky hillside to where she had been sitting. ‘From up there I could see signs of habitation and smoking chimneys, so everybody is up.’

Whilst she packed her rucksack and dismantled her tent, Daniel fed the animals and Charles spread the ash from the fire. In half an hour they were on their way on the final leg of their journey through Switzerland, down the valley towards the village of Gondo.

A resident offered them smoked ham, sausages and eggs for breakfast, with rye bread just out of the oven and a plentiful supply of piping hot coffee. As they ate, they were told that Domodossola, the border town, was approximately two miles down the valley. Their host suggested they visit the caves of Gondo and the deep water canyon where the young men might like to swim; they politely declined, saying that they still had many miles to travel to reach their destination, Genoa.

Their host opened his mouth in astonishment and said it was a long way and that he had never ventured so far. He looked curiously at Beatrice and called his wife to come and take a look at her and seemed to be explaining something to her. She looked at Beatrice and then Charles and nodded as if understanding that they were brother and sister, but had a questioning frown over Daniel.

‘Erm – cousin,’ Beatrice told her.

‘Ah!’ the woman said. ‘Italiano?’

‘No.’ Daniel shook his head. ‘English.’

‘Nein.’ She too shook her head and smiled. ‘Italiano!’

‘You do look Italian,’ Charles commented as they said goodbye and
Auf Wiedersehen
to their hosts. ‘Especially now you’re so suntanned.’

‘Do I?’ Daniel hadn’t looked in a mirror recently, though his hands and arms were brown, whereas Charles and Beatrice had kept themselves covered in fear of burning in the hot sun. ‘Then I’d better start practising Italian.’

And as they reached Domodossola and crossed into Italy Charles and Beatrice agreed that he should, for the officials at the border addressed Charles and Beatrice in German and English and Daniel in Italian. ‘
Bentornato in Italia.
’ Welcome back to Italy.

CHAPTER THIRTY

It was Saturday and a market was in full swing in the medieval town of Domodossola. They bought sausages, cured ham, pastries and juicy tomatoes to top up their supply of food; they also bought oats for the ponies and carrots for the donkey, who had proved to be an amiable animal, sweeter perhaps for the company of the horses and rarely obstinate or complaining when being loaded.