The Tuscan Girl: Completely gripping WW2 historical fiction Read online

  She climbed down to the river at a crossing point where there’d once been an old bridge. Now, she had to balance her way across stepping stones. One of them was loose and her foot slipped into the water, wetting her socks and the bottom of her trousers. The water was freezing and she swore loudly. A willow branch trailing in the water quivered on the other bank, and she noticed a figure, stooping to fill an old-fashioned pitcher with water.

  A tall, thin woman straightened up and smiled across at Alba. She wore a long sack-like linen dress that came down to her ankles. ‘Let me help you dry your feet, signorina,’ she said. Her voice was soft and she was well-spoken.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alba said. ‘Excuse my language. I thought I was alone.’

  ‘No matter. Follow me.’ The woman turned to climb up a steep path. Crude steps had been dug into the incline lined with large, flat stones secured by wooden pegs. The woman moved at a steady pace, her long grey plait swinging as she moved, whereas Alba was breathless after the steep ascent. At the top, she walked three steps behind the woman, along a narrow avenue lined with beech trees. In a clearing, shaded by tall Mediterranean pines, stood a small stone chapel. Alba had never visited this place before, although she’d heard about a hermitage in the woods.

  ‘Please sit and catch your breath, signorina,’ the woman said. ‘And allow me to dry your footwear. My bread is almost baked, and the oven is warm. Share with me.’

  She indicated a bench in the lee of the church, beside a door to an attached building where Alba noticed the mouth of an oven, closed off with a metal door. A basket containing dried pine cones sat beside a neat woodpile, and one or two items of laundry were drying over a fence.

  ‘You are very welcome,’ the woman continued. ‘Not many pilgrims pass by at this time of the year.’

  ‘Oh! I’m not a pilgrim,’ Alba started, ‘I was just walking…’

  ‘It depends how one defines pilgrimage. A journey to a special place is how I like to think of it, signorina.’

  ‘Please call me Alba.’

  ‘Meaning “dawn”,’ the unusual woman said. ‘A new beginning… I am Lodovica, and you must forgive me if I ramble. I’m more used to talking to my thoughts.’ Her smile was beautiful, accentuating high cheekbones and eyes so dark they were like night.

  She turned to open the oven door and inserted a long-handled metal shovel to withdraw two crusty loaves. Although Alba had eaten a large portion of Anna’s tagliatelle al ragù at lunchtime, she accepted a warm crust of the fragrant bread.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’ Lodovica asked, while she arranged Alba’s socks to dry near the embers. ‘My drinking water comes from a spring in the woods.’ She went inside the building and returned with a glass bottle and two tumblers.

  Simple bread and water had never tasted so good to Alba.

  ‘This feels like a religious ceremony,’ Alba commented. ‘Are you a nun, or something? I’m afraid I’m not religious. I’m not even sure I believe in a God. Sorry,’ she added, suddenly feeling awkward that she’d asked personal questions of a woman she had only just met.

  ‘No need to apologise. Yes, I am a nun, but I prefer to be known as Lodovica. I’m a hermit. And, like you, I didn’t believe in any type of God when I was younger. And this ceremony, as you describe it, is simply a sharing of refreshments.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘In July it will be ten years.’ She rose from the bench. ‘Can I leave you for ten minutes, Alba? By then, your footwear should be dry.’

  The nun walked to the front of the chapel and pulled open its heavy door and disappeared inside.

  Alba was happy to sit beneath the canopy of pines that whooshed back and forth in the breeze, the sound hypnotic like that of waves. She felt oddly at peace in the company of this stranger. An urge to draw hit her and she hunted for charcoal and pad in her bag. Her hand began to fly over the paper as she transferred rough outlines of the stone buildings, mountains in the background, a meadow where a flock of sheep grazed and the huddle of Fresciano’s higgledy-piggledy houses in the distance. Pleased with what she’d accomplished, she wandered over to the chapel.

  Beside the door was a crude fresco and she read the description beneath. In the sixteenth century, this ruined chapel from 1300 had been restored, because a mule carrying Cardinal Bevilacqua had stumbled and knelt before an apparition of the Madonna.

  On a shelf beneath the fresco, Alba noticed a highly polished silver jug containing an arrangement of spring flowers. The style of the jug was reminiscent of the goblets she and Davide had discovered, and as Alba stepped nearer to check, she was shocked to see a swirly initial ‘B’ engraved on the handle. It seemed such a worldly object compared to the simple earthenware tumbler Lodovica had handed her earlier, and Alba wondered why the woman should have part of this set. She jumped as the nun emerged from the chapel, blinking in the sunlight. Alba felt as though she’d been spying on her and, in her confusion, she blurted out, ‘This story – about the mule – do you suppose it really happened?’

  Lodovica shrugged her shoulders. ‘I wasn’t there, of course. But people believe in stranger things.’

  ‘I struggle with dogma,’ Alba continued, pulling on the dry socks Lodovica had handed her. ‘Those stories of bizarre miracles, of saints with stigmata, outdated rules and regulations of an ancient institution governed mostly by old men.’

  Lodovica laughed. ‘You sound like me when I was young. Why do you think I’ve chosen to be a hermit and do my own thing?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never spoken to anybody like you before.’

  ‘Well.’ Lodovica smiled. ‘Now is your chance.’

  Alba paused, drawn to this mysterious woman living so differently. She seemed so content and serene. ‘Please don’t think me rude, Lodovica. But… living as a hermit. Separating yourself from the real world.’

  ‘Real world?’ The nun’s voice was almost sharp when she replied.

  Alba paused before saying, ‘Well, living on your own, far from a village, spending your days like this. Isn’t it simply bypassing real life?’

  ‘I believe what I do now is real life.’

  ‘What did you do before you came here?’

  ‘I was a fashion model in Milan for one of the famous couture houses.’

  Alba gasped, but when she properly examined the woman before her, she could see it. Her striking, unusual looks, her height, the way she walked so gracefully, almost gliding, her shoulders set back. She could imagine her slim body draped in edgy, season-defining fashions. ‘Wow,’ Alba said, sitting forward on the bench. ‘That’s so amazing.’

  ‘Why amazing? In the end I found it extremely tedious, and it almost killed me mentally. It certainly was killing me physically.’

  Alba’s glance was questioning.

  ‘I took drugs to keep my weight down and to cope with men and the stress of it all. Being here is real life. I was a zombie in the city. No good to anybody, least of all myself.’

  ‘But… and forgive me, for everybody has a right to live how they want…’ Alba started.

  ‘You’re going to ask me what I do with my time. What is the point of it all. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m here for others. I’m not a drain on society. I live self-sufficiently from my vegetable patch and a couple of hens.’

  ‘And who owns these buildings?’

  ‘I bought them from the Curia with the money I earned in Milan. They were ruins when I took them on.’

  ‘So, did you inherit lots of stuff from the Church along with the building?’ Alba asked, thinking about the jug. ‘Only, I found some silverware with the exact same crest as your vase, the one by the chapel. It was in a box hidden up in the mountains.’

  Lodovica stood up, pulling down the rolled-up sleeves of her habit against the freshening wind. ‘There were quite a few things left when I took this place on, yes, but… not that piece. I came across that jug in the forest.’ She paused, and Alba
wondered what she was going to say next, but that seemed to be the end of the matter. ‘Would you like to see inside my home?’ Lodovica asked. ‘It’s probably not as primitive as you imagine.’

  ‘I should really be getting back to my family. They’ll be worried.’

  ‘Why not spend the night here? I’m sure you have a mobile phone to message them?’

  It was an easy decision to make. There was something soothing about this woman’s company.

  ‘If you’re sure? You probably value your silence. I don’t want to be in the way.’

  Lodovica cocked her head to one side and looked long at Alba. ‘I invited you, Alba.’

  * * *

  The room where Alba was to sleep that night was simple. A tiny window recessed in the thick walls and curtained with a plain cream cotton square looked out over the woods. An enamel candlestick placed on a painted stool and a small wooden box were the only furnishings, apart from a single metal bed and a home-made rug on the floor.

  ‘Where will you sleep?’ Alba asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, this is for guests. My bedroom is on the other side of the main room.’

  The main living space of Lodovica’s single-storey home was dominated by a wide fireplace, with wooden trestles placed on either side of the hearth. Ashes glowed in the fire basket and Lodovica blew on a long metal tube to stoke the flames. She unhooked a pot of simmering water from a chain hanging over the fire. ‘We’ll have tea and you can talk to me. I feel you need to.’

  While the shadows lengthened outside, they drank fennel tea from earthenware mugs.

  ‘Tell me what is troubling you, Alba.’

  ‘I’m not troubled… At least, I feel I’ve now begun to turn a corner.’

  There was silence in the room, except for the fire crackling in the grate. Lodovica waited for Alba to speak.

  ‘My boyfriend was killed in a horrific accident not long before Christmas. I thought we would marry, and my dreams were shattered,’ Alba said eventually. ‘It turned my world upside down.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. That is hard.’

  ‘It happened over three months ago, and I need to move on… I hate to keep talking about it to my parents. They’ve been so amazing.’

  ‘You can talk to me.’

  ‘You’re very kind. I don’t know… I’ve only just met you, but I feel I could tell you anything. And though you’re a nun and all that, you wouldn’t be shocked.’

  ‘I told you about my life before. Nothing shocks me.’

  ‘If we’d had children, it would have been awful. I desperately wanted James’s babies, but he told me he wasn’t ready to commit.’

  ‘I lost a baby,’ Lodovica said.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘The father was married. I believed he would choose me over his wife. But I was wrong.’

  Silence fell again between the women, Alba not wanting to pry so soon in this new friendship and Lodovica perhaps not ready to enlighten. Outside, the wind danced up a mini-storm, pine branches tapping against the roof tiles, but inside it was safe and warm.

  ‘Would you like to eat? You could help me prepare, Alba.’

  They worked together at a table, beating eggs, chopping parsley, thyme and rosemary to season a frittata that Lodovica fried in a pan over the fire. A side salad of roasted endive and sliced tomatoes completed the simple meal.

  ‘Do you always cook like this?’

  ‘I have a two-ring camping stove for emergencies, but I eat very simply and, as you saw, I have my oven. I fire that up twice a week. You were lucky to happen along today for my fresh bread.’

  ‘I don’t know if I could live like this. It’s stark.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first, but it’s amazing how little we really need. A bed to sleep on, water, fire and something to eat and drink. Now I relish my time to listen.’

  ‘Listen?’

  ‘I listen to God.’

  She pointed to a sampler in a plain wooden frame on the wall with the words ‘Let go, let God’ embroidered in cross-stitch.

  ‘You said you don’t believe in miracles, Alba,’ Lodovica said, slicing an apple into quarters. ‘I prefer to use the word “sign” rather than “miracle”.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  When something amazing happens, then I believe this is a sign. Your turning up here today, for example, was a sign. You needed to talk openly, without fear of upsetting anybody, and you found me here, ready to listen.’

  ‘I would call that coincidence.’

  The nun shrugged. ‘The terminology is up to you. At any rate, I’m pleased you came along, and I hope you’ll feel free to come again.’

  They talked for another hour, Alba outlining her project for Egidio at the tourist office.

  ‘Walking helps untangle my thoughts,’ Alba said. ‘The countryside here is magical – so beautiful but, sadly, dotted with too many ruins.’

  ‘All with their own stories.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Alba pulled out the sketch she’d started earlier of the chapel nestled in its surroundings and Lodovica spent a long time examining it.

  ‘That’s wonderful. You should nurture this skill.’

  ‘Thank you, Lodovica. I’m planning on applying for an art course that starts in the autumn.’ Alba leant back in her chair and decided to tell her new friend about her experience at the ruin of Seccaroni. Now felt like the right time to talk more about the silverware, too. ‘You talk of signs. Tell me I’m mad, but I’d value your opinion.’

  She described the person she’d seen up on the Mountain of the Moon; how he’d seemed to disappear into thin air. ‘I went back with my brother to try to find him again, but he wasn’t there and now my family tease me because I think he was some kind of ghost. Actually, now I believe it was grief affecting me.’

  Lodovica said nothing, and Alba was pleased she’d made no comment. ‘We didn’t find anybody up there, but we found treasure inside a box instead – at the point where I’d seen the man disappear.’

  ‘Treasure?’ Lodovica asked, getting up to stoke the flames.

  ‘Silver goblets, plates, old and tarnished – in the same style as the vase you’ve placed beneath the fresco. I told you it has the same markings, and I’ve found out it represents the Boccarini family crest. Isn’t it uncanny that you also have a piece of what seems to be a set?’

  The woman turned towards Alba, a frown on her face. ‘As I said before, I found that piece, Alba. I felt it needed a good home.’ She yawned. ‘But it’s time for me to sleep,’ she said, bringing the conversation to an end. ‘I rise very early each morning to pray.’ She lit a candle from the fire and accompanied Alba to her room. ‘Good night, Alba. Sleep well.’

  * * *

  Alba woke at eight and found a bowl of milk, a couple of slices of yesterday’s bread wrapped in a napkin and a pot of home-made blackberry and apple jam on the kitchen table. A note propped against a jam jar of spring flowers told her to enjoy her breakfast and to come again soon. There was no sign of Lodovica. After her breakfast, Alba let herself out of the hermit’s house, gently pulling the door to and setting off back to the river path. As she passed the shrine outside the chapel, she noticed that the silver jug had been replaced with a simple pot and she wondered if Lodovica, taking note of what Alba had told her about its origins, had felt the jug too precious to leave outside. The clouds were low this morning, threatening rain, a heavy mist cloaking the tops of the mountains, and she hurried back to the Stalla.

  * * *

  There was nobody in when she arrived home. In a way, she was pleased. She wanted to hug the knowledge of her eccentric new friend to herself for a while, before recounting the events of the last twenty-four hours to others.

  Upstairs in her room, she pulled out the unfinished sketch of Lodovica’s chapel and worked on it until she was satisfied. This would be her first offering for Egidio, but she decided to complete a further couple before handing them over.

  Out of habit, she picked up her pho
ne. It needed recharging after her night away. The screensaver still displayed a photo of herself and James sitting together, beneath a palm tree on Patong beach in Thailand. She wondered when she would feel ready to change it. The pain of losing James was still there, but it was now more of a dull ache. Then she remembered a comment the nun had made to her while they sat by the fire the night before. Something along the lines of being patient with herself; to take a series of small steps to reach another tomorrow.

  Six

  ‘I wondered about going down to Sansepolcro today for a change of scenery,’ Alba said at breakfast the next morning.

  ‘To the metropolis?’ Anna laughed. ‘After London, it will seem really quiet.’

  ‘You know, I won’t mind that at all, and the library is good there. Maybe I can dig out more information about the Boccarini estate and the silver. Can I use the Vespa, Babbo?’

  ‘It’s due for a service, but I should think you’ll be fine. Your helmet is still in the garage somewhere. Oh, and try the tourist office records as well as the library – they have plenty of files on the history of the region.’

  * * *

  The Vespa didn’t start immediately but once it sputtered into life, she was off. It would soon be May and the sun was warm on her back through her leather jacket. At the Viamaggio Pass, she stopped to gaze on the view of the reservoir glistening in the valley below. A cluster of ox-eye daisies and yellow rattle caught her eye, and she crouched down to frame a picture on her phone of the wild flowers and the large expanse of water in the background.