The Tuscan Girl: Completely gripping WW2 historical fiction Read online

  ‘Perhaps whoever it was took another path.’

  ‘I definitely saw him go down there… where you went,’ she insisted.

  Her brother gave her a funny look. ‘Well, even if you haven’t found your ghost,’ he said with a smirk, ‘you’ve found treasure instead.’ He ducked as she tried to slap him. ‘Whoa! You’re like a woman possessed… woo-oooh!’ he teased, waving his arms about. ‘Right, let’s go home now. We’ll carry this lot between us. The box is too heavy to bother with – we’ll hide it in the ruin. It’ll be dark soon and I don’t want to spend a night on the mountain.’

  ‘You see, you’re spooked now.’

  ‘Not a bit. I simply prefer the idea of sleeping in my nice cosy bed, after enjoying a Peroni by the stove… and not in the company of a nutter,’ he added.

  Alba thumped him again and he grinned. ‘I’m sure it will all become plain, sooner or later,’ he said. ‘There are no such things as ghosts.’

  She didn’t comment, keeping her thoughts to herself, dwelling on the reasons as to why a box of old silver objects should be stashed in a hole near these ruins. Could the find possibly date back to the war and the partisans who used this place?

  On the way down, Davide tentatively asked her how she was coping after losing James.

  ‘It’s hard,’ she said. ‘Lonely. All my plans ruined. It’s shit, basically. And I know it’s selfish, but it’s just awful to know that he wanted to break up with me before he died. I hate that… and I feel his death was my fault. Truth is, we weren’t getting on too well for a while, but… I miss him so much.’

  ‘Did he have somebody else?’

  ‘If he did, he was clever. We were living together, remember. I never found lipstick on his collar or a blonde hair on his clothes, the sort of giveaways you read about in novels. There were times when he worked late, but I’m sure I would have known. The scent of somebody else’s perfume, or whatever. Him behaving oddly… no, he just told me he didn’t feel ready to commit.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alba. Don’t really know what to say. Shit happens.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Anyway, I’m trying to get myself together, but I’m not looking forward to going back to the flat. There’s a lot to sort out.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  They continued in silence, their rucksacks heavier now, the treasure within making metallic sounds as they descended. It had turned darker, the sky heavy with snow. Alba could not rid her mind of thoughts of the young man she had seen. If he was one of the hippies who had decided to remain up here on the Mountain of the Moon at summer’s end, where was he living now? How could he keep warm? Maybe Davide was right, and she was still not herself after losing James. But she felt pretty sure she hadn’t imagined him; he had seemed real. Davide was walking in front of her now along the narrow track. He looked so young. She didn’t want him to get hurt like she had been. She felt a sudden rush of sisterly protection.

  ‘Davide, at the risk of sounding cynical, please make sure you get to know your new girlfriend well before you get too involved… don’t get carried away by lust.’

  ‘Ha ha! Always straight to the heart of the matter, Alba! Don’t worry, I’m not stupid. But I want you to meet her soon. I’m sure you’ll like her.’

  ‘I hope so. I’ll be a tiger sister if I think she’s not right.’

  ‘So very matriarchal and italiana…’

  ‘Funny, James was always accusing me of being that. But I am Italian. Maybe I should have stood up to him more during our relationship. Then he would have wanted to stay together, and I wouldn’t have made him so angry that day… and he’d still be alive.’

  ‘Bad vibes with “should have”, Alba. Negative. Think forward, not backward.’

  ‘Yes, signor Filosofo. But that’s easier said than done. Come on, let’s get a move on. I can’t wait to show everybody our haul, and I’m hungry. I think Ma is making her famous turkey lasagne.’

  Four

  Tuscany, 1940

  ‘Don’t go alone to the river, Lucia,’ her mother said. ‘Watch out for those Blackshirts. There was a group throwing their weight around this week in the piazza.’

  The small platoon of young and eager fascist militia newly posted in Badia had taken to coming down to the river on these hot June days to bathe where the children of Tramarecchia were used to running wild in the meadows and swimming in the weir.

  Lucia wondered if her best friend Massimo was doing the same now, all those miles away in Libya, and if he’d found somewhere safe to swim off the African coast. He’d sent a postcard and she’d placed it on the shelf above the fireplace. The corners were beginning to curl and turn yellow. On the front was a coloured photo of a camel in the desert, like a picture from the children’s Bible that signor Guelfi had pinned on his classroom wall. Massimo had scrawled a message on the back in his untidy handwriting. It’s too hot here, it read. The rest of the words had been blacked out and, peer as she might, she couldn’t decipher the letters. She was curious to know if he was missing her.

  * * *

  The last time they’d been together had been strange. It had been one of those sultry days at the end of August last year. The morning had started in a blaze of sunshine and her mother had sent her out to the meadows to pick plums for jam. Massimo had followed her down the path, and with his help her pail was full in no time.

  ‘Let’s leave it here, under the hedge. Race you to the river,’ she’d said. ‘We can wash off the plum stains and cool down.’

  She’d set off before him, lifting her skirt above her knees to run more freely. And she could run like the wind. It was as if she wanted to recapture the last remnants of childhood. As she ran, scenes from the past filled her mind. She and Massimo had grown up together, but although he was older, she was the ringleader of their little gang of seven friends. When the children’s tasks were done – feeding the hens, raking muck from the stables – they would disappear to the river to play. In summer they’d build dams and fish for trout. In winter, if there was snow, they’d play on home-made toboggans, or make skis from lengths of wood. There was never a shortage of games in their children’s paradise. Lucia climbed trees higher than some of the boys. Perched fearlessly at the top, she’d jeer down at them to hurry up and join her. She would sing her victory song from the top branches, her beautiful voice ringing out above them. Her clear soprano tone had been picked up by the teacher and he’d urged her parents to send her to choir practices in the main church in Badia at the top of the valley. She had a gift, he said, that should not be wasted.

  She was a spirited girl, often getting into trouble. Once, she’d stolen underwear off her neighbour’s fence where it was drying and hung it like flags to flutter from the railings on the bridge in Rofelle for any passer-by to see. But now she was growing up. Her blouse was too small for her and she had more flesh on her hips. She was sure Massimo had deliberately slowed his pace as she ran across the grass so that he could view her from behind.

  A huge clap of thunder had split the air and it started to rain, sullen clouds covering every centimetre of what had been blue sky. They’d run to shelter in old Pio’s house. Two months earlier he had died in his bed and since then, his door had stayed unlocked as if waiting for his return. Lucia bent double inside, hands on her knees, catching her breath from her exertions, and spied Massimo trying not to look at the shape of her through her wet cotton blouse.

  ‘I’m still faster than you,’ she’d said, grinning up at him. ‘You’re an old slowcoach.’ She pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Half a bottle of olive oil sat in the middle of the cloth, and a pile of woodworm dust that had fallen from the beam above.

  Her lips were still stained from eating the little red plums, and Massimo had suddenly pulled her clumsily towards him. She’d kept her eyes open, a slight frown puckering her forehead, her mouth stiff against his. And then she’d shoved him away. ‘What was all that about?’ she said.

  ‘Does it have to be about an
ything? Didn’t you like it?’ He’d sat down opposite and watched her.

  Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she’d replied, ‘It’s a bit weird, that’s all.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to live with me in a house like this?’ He’d pointed towards the vast fireplace where ashes waited to be cleared from beneath a black cooking pot. ‘On our own? So that we could pick plums and… kiss on rainy days?’

  He’d moved towards her again across the table, but she’d got up to straighten a pair of clogs left abandoned by the fireplace.

  ‘There’s more to life than picking fruit and kissing,’ she’d said. ‘I want more before all that, Massimo.’

  She’d leant with her back against the windowsill, a draught from a cracked pane blowing wisps of her curls to frame her pretty face.

  ‘I’m not ready to have babies and be tied to cooking and washing. I want to see more places than old Tramarecchia.’ She’d returned to sit in her chair, the table between them a barrier to further kisses. ‘I might try and get a job down in one of those big hotels in Rimini. I was talking to Olga, who was back for the feast of Ferragosto. She told me about the people she meets – they come from all over Italy, and other countries like France and England. Even America. They give her huge tips. The Americans speak Italian with a funny accent and come back to visit their relatives, and they wear swanky clothes and gold rings on their fingers. And she told me about the market along the seafront where you can buy anything you want…’

  ‘You’d still be cooking and washing, but in a hotel, for somebody else.’

  ‘Well, at least it would be different. Massimo, I’m only fourteen – not ready to pop out babies and work my fingers to the bone on a scrubby piece of land, like our mothers.’ She’d looked at him. ‘Don’t you want more than this place can give you?’

  He hadn’t replied to that, although his eyes told her more than his silence. If he’d come out with some sentimental statement, she probably would have laughed. As it was, Massimo simply shrugged his shoulders and looked away, fiddling with a rip in the tablecloth.

  The rain had stopped, and through the open door she’d watched steam rise from the stone walls that bordered old Pio’s vegetable garden. Massimo got up, the sound of his chair scraping against the flagstones breaking the silence.

  ‘Let’s get those plums back to your mother before they turn to a soggy mess,’ he’d said, ushering her out and pulling the door closed behind him.

  * * *

  Lucia wondered if it was their conversation that afternoon that had caused Massimo to enlist in the army. Whatever his reasons, he was gone within that fortnight and they hadn’t seen him since. The only contact had been the postcard, and that had told her next to nothing.

  Everything was now concentrated on the war. In their spare time in the evenings, she and her mother knitted socks and gloves for the soldiers, and slogans appeared everywhere, daubed on the walls: ‘Credere, Obbedire, Combattere’, they exhorted, urging everybody to believe and obey Il Duce and the Empire and to follow him in the fight.

  When Lucia had expressed her wish to find work in Rimini, it was immediately squashed.

  ‘You’re to stay here. Who knows what goes on down at the coast,’ her father had said. ‘The place is swarming with soldiers and militia. It’s not safe. You will stay here where we can keep an eye on you. I forbid you to leave.’

  And the truth was that even Olga had now returned to the village to be with her family. When Lucia had complained to Olga about how bored she was, when she saw her in the piazza, Olga had told her the city had changed. ‘The only way to get tips now, cara Lucia, is if you go to bed with the soldiers. And even then they don’t always pay… I’ve heard say,’ she added quickly. ‘At least here there is plenty to eat. There are chickens and vegetables in our orti. There is nothing there. Food is scarcer by the day, and it is requisitioned for the forces. Your father is right to keep you here.’

  Lucia sulked and watched as even the village schoolchildren were swept up in the war machine. Each Saturday, they had to march about in the square in Badia Tedalda. Signor Guelfi, their rotund teacher, squeezed himself into shorts and a black shirt and led his straggly band of forty-five youngsters in exercises to become perfect little fascisti. The boys, in their black shirts and caps, were known as Balilla, the girls, Piccole italiane – the fascists of tomorrow. Guelfi was half-hearted and reluctant to push the children too much. But recently he had been inspected by a fascist bigwig from Arezzo and reprimanded in front of everybody. ‘These children are too soft, Guelfi,’ a slim young man with a chiselled face had bellowed. ‘If we are to build up our Empire, we need strong, young warriors. Take it from me, the Duce would not be pleased with your efforts. You would be wise to smarten up. He likes to arrive without warning to inspect these manoeuvres.’

  Lucia’s father had grumbled at supper that night about the stupid propaganda the fascisti were stuffing into the minds of schoolchildren.

  ‘At least if they taught them something useful like cooking or outdoor skills, there would be some purpose to it all. Why the Scouts were banned, I do not know. All these children do is parade up and down with wooden guns on their shoulders,’ he said, tearing off a hunk of bread to mop up the rest of the tomato sauce on his plate. ‘And what does the Duce think he is doing? Our army is no match against the allies. How can we possibly win a war against their might? All this talk about “vinceremo”, we shall win, and the resurrection of the Empire plastered on posters and leaflets. Bah!’ He poured himself another tumbler of wine and knocked it back in one.

  ‘Make sure you don’t talk like that in the osteria, Doriano,’ Lucia’s mother said, hands on hips, turning away from the sink, ‘or somebody will report you and you’ll be arrested. Remember, we are all supposed to be loyal repubblichini…’

  ‘We might have documents to say so, but my heart tells me otherwise. The high-and-mighty Duce might have helped Italy in the past, but I believe power has gone to his head. His stock reply to criticism is “il Duce ha sempre ragione”. Well, I for one do not believe the Duce is always right. And I’m not the only one who is disillusioned, I can tell you. All that man wants is rich pickings from the spoils of war. Porco cane.’ As he swore, he pushed his empty plate away and rubbed his stomach, a grimace on his face.

  ‘Hush, Doriano, walls have ears,’ his wife said, her finger against her lips. She turned to Lucia. ‘And you be careful not to repeat a word of what your father has said this evening.’

  Now, almost two years after Massimo had left, Alba and her family heard on the radio about the defeat of the Italians in the desert in Libya. She remembered her father’s words about Italy’s weak army and how they were no match for the Allies.

  Another postcard for her arrived several months later. This time it was from England.

  I’ve been a prisoner here since 17 July. All danger is over now. I am very well. Sending you good wishes. Do not worry.

  Massimo

  Five

  Tuscany, Present Day

  Three Months Later

  * * *

  ‘It’s good to be back, Anna,’ Alba told her stepmother as she drained her coffee. She gazed through the picture window at pots of early fuchsia-pink geraniums decorating the steps on the terrace. ‘I’d almost started talking to myself back in London. The flat without James was spooky.’

  Anna reached over to squeeze Alba’s hand. ‘It’s good to have you back. I shall enjoy spoiling you.’

  She was rewarded with a weak smile. ‘I tried so hard to keep going in London,’ Alba said. ‘Working at the gallery and forcing myself to prepare proper meals for one in the evening and going out with the same old crowd, but… my heart wasn’t in it,’ Alba said, getting up to pour them both more coffee. ‘It didn’t feel like home any more. André and Marcus were absolute stars, you know, turning up at the flat with wonderful meals they’d cooked. And… they took charge of clearing out James’s stuff for me. I couldn’t have done that alone
.’

  ‘They are wonderful friends. You needed to go back to London. Babbo and I both understood that. But we did worry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done anything stupid, Anna,’ Alba said, coming over to hug her. ‘I cried myself to sleep for nights and nights at the beginning, but’ – she shrugged her shoulders – ‘he’s not coming back. And there’s a lot I want to get on and do. I realise now I’d given up on my dreams because of James.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘My art, for starters. I talked about that a lot with Marcus. And I looked up online about the foundation course at the academy in Florence. I’d love to apply.’

  ‘I’m sure Babbo will be very happy for you.’

  ‘But that’s not until October. In the meantime, I’ve promised to help Egidio out at the tourist office with his ruins project. I might start today, and explore for some inspiration. Plus, I want to see if I can track down more information about the silverware Davide and I found. Egidio hasn’t had much luck.’

  * * *

  After breakfast, and with the sunshine beckoning, Alba set off for a walk on the other side of the river towards the village of Fresciano di Sotto. Primroses studded the banks, and orchids were beginning to appear in clumps through the grass like little purple pokers. She noticed other species along her route, which she couldn’t identify. Maybe Babbo could take her on a walk with him one day. He was considered a local expert since he’d published his pocket guide to the flora and fauna of the area. As she walked, she thought back to her winter walk up to ruined Seccaroni. She still puzzled over the apparition of the fantasma, as her father jokingly described him, but she now put it down to the effects of grief after losing James and her mind playing tricks. Egidio had not been able to tell her much more about the silver, other than it bore the symbol for the old estate of the Boccarini family, but he’d suggested she might find out more at the library down in Sansepolcro. He couldn’t find the copy of the book he’d told her about, and he thought she might find one in the city. Both these things were on her to-do list.