The Tuscan Girl: Completely gripping WW2 historical fiction Read online

  Not long after the pass, she braked hard. She had travelled up and down this road for years, but not once had she taken any notice of the ornate gates that caught her attention this morning. Tall, imposing, despite the rust that called out for sandblasting, they were decorated with a large swirling ‘B’, identical to the crest on the silverware that she and Davide had found. She moved the Vespa to the side of the road and went to peer through the gates. A board announcing that a new boutique hotel would open here was tied to the bars. At the end of a gravelled drive choked with weeds and lined with cypress trees stood an imposing nineteenth-century villa. The house was run-down: a couple of shutters hung lopsided from their hinges and all the woodwork needed repainting. There was nobody about. Alba took several photos of the gates and set off again, certain that she had found the place from where the silverware had originated.

  Within another few kilometres, she glimpsed her first sight of the town through the olive groves. The terracotta roof tiles of its old houses were splashes of rust-red through the silvery leaves and contorted trunks. Once again, she pulled in at the side of the road to find her phone for another picture. With the motor switched off, she stood for a few moments enjoying the repetitive song of a chiffchaff. A lizard scuttled across the road and disappeared down a culvert. She hadn’t seen one yet up at Rofelle. But it was warmer down here on the plain, and she couldn’t wait to go to her favourite bar in the main piazza to linger in the sun over coffee. Sansepolcro was where she used to come each Monday to Saturday for her high school studies, so she knew the town well. When she was a teenager, she’d resented having to return to the quiet of Rofelle, wishing she could live down there and go out with her friends in the evenings. It was such a trek each day up and down on the school bus. But now, having lived in London for eight years, she was loving the tranquillity of the countryside.

  She pulled the Vespa off its stand and kick-started it. But it wouldn’t go. She waited for a while before trying again, in case she flooded the engine, but – nothing. She decided against leaving it by the road; there were no houses nearby and the Vespa was a valuable vintage 1970s model. She didn’t want it stolen. So she freewheeled down the remaining kilometres and then walked it along the flat until she reached a mechanic’s workshop her father used. It was at the end of a cobbled alleyway that led to a yard, home to a dozen stray cats and a jumble of rusting motorbikes and classic Fiats. It seemed there was nobody around at first, and she called out, ‘C’è nessuno? Anybody there?’

  A man in his fifties appeared from underneath a car. ‘Eccomi!’ he said. ‘Here I am. How can I help, signorina?’

  He wiped his hands on an oily cloth hanging from the back of his dungarees and exclaimed at the beauty of her scooter, running his hands over the bodywork as he asked her where she had found it. After much scratching of his head and fiddling around near the wheels, he pronounced it would be ready in two days’ time. He was very sorry, but he needed to order new shock absorbers and as it was Friday, they would arrive Monday at the very earliest, but not to worry, because her little Vespina would be perfectly safe in his hands.

  ‘If you like, I could lend you a pushbike,’ he said, but Alba explained how far away she lived and thanked him for his kind offer. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I know the area well. I go truffle-hunting in those woods.’

  She left her details and made her way to the bar in the main piazza, snapping images as she went: an old wine barrel planted with lavender and cascades of trailing pink geraniums; sheets hanging from a top-floor window; a cat curled up on the worn front step of a vast door of pitted chestnut wood; a box of vegetables on the pavement outside a greengrocer’s that looked like an artist’s palette of colour, with shining green peppers, oranges, huge bulbs of fennel and plump lollo lettuces. There was a feast for the eyes everywhere she looked.

  The owner of the bar didn’t recognise her at first, but when he did, he threw his arms around her as if she were a long-lost daughter and, when he called out to his wife that little Alba Starnucci was back from Inghilterra, there were kisses all round, and her cappuccino was offered on the house, with a cake of her choice thrown in. She lingered over her refreshments, gazing at her compatriots in the piazza. They were beautiful, she decided. At least half a dozen of the girls who walked by could have stepped straight from a fashion magazine, their figures trim, hair raven-black and all with immaculate dress sense, even if it was only jeans and a sweater tied round the waist. They had a way of walking, too, which said, ‘I defy you not to look at me’, with their shoulders back, bosom forward, a faint wiggle of the hips. And the shoes. Some of the shoes were outlandish, impossible to walk far in, Alba thought, grateful she’d worn her trainers for her unexpected trek with her Vespa. The men pretended not to watch the women as they walked past, but the swivel of the neck was a giveaway. She’d watched an amusing documentary which had joked about Italian men having different sets of muscles in their necks to permit them to watch girls without turning around. She smiled into her coffee at the memory.

  Alba decided she would have to catch the bus back home. There was only one a day, and the timing meant she would have to visit the tourist office first to see if they could help her with information about the Boccarini estate. On the way, she popped into the cathedral cloisters to gaze at the faded frescoes. They were mostly country scenes of fishermen along a river, peasants working in fields and a hermit praying in a mountainside cave. It made her think of Lodovica, and she decided to pay her another visit soon. She’d enjoyed her calming company.

  After entering the tourist office, Alba explained to the girl behind the counter what she was looking for.

  ‘I’m doing a project on the ruins in the area and I wondered if you had anything about the old Boccarini estate up the road. Or the house called Seccaroni, on the Mountain of the Moon.’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Let me ask my boss,’ she said. ‘Un momento.’

  A young man, looking like another Italian god from a magazine, appeared from a back room. He was dressed in jeans and a slim-fitting blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his wrists. His hair was well cut, a flop of dark curls on top, fashionably shaved at the sides. He grinned broadly at Alba as, lifting the hinged counter, he came straight over to her and swept her into his arms.

  ‘Alba, ma come stai? How long has it been?’ He smelled of expensive aftershave, lemony and tangy, and his stubble grazed her cheeks as he planted two hearty kisses on each.

  She pushed him away and stepped back. ‘Excuse me?’ she said. ‘Do I know you?’

  He roared with laughter. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you? But you haven’t changed at all, Alba.’

  And then she twigged, staring in disbelief at this vision in front of her, his deep brown laughing eyes, a broad smile lighting up his handsome face. No way would she have known he was her lovable old schoolmate, Alfiero Paoli. No way. He’d been geeky, with thick-rimmed glasses, baggy clothes, his hair choppy, his curls tamed with so much gel it had looked permanently greasy. They’d been in the same study groups at school and had often done their homework together at each other’s houses. Their friends had nicknamed them The Two As because of their initials and the fact that they both always achieved high grades. But he had changed so much; she couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Alfi,’ she stuttered. ‘What a… surprise,’ she eventually came out with, rather lamely.

  ‘I thought you’d moved to England,’ he said. ‘Are you back visiting your parents?’

  ‘I’ve left London,’ she said, not wanting to explain further.

  ‘We must have a drink and catch up immediately.’ He turned to the girl behind the counter. ‘Marianna, can you hold the fort? I’ll take my lunch break now.’

  Outside in the piazza, he linked arms with her. ‘I have a table booked for one o’clock, but it won’t matter if we’re early. I want to know everything you’ve been up to, Alba.’

  ‘Buongiorno, signor Alfiero,’ the waiter said as they entered a little
restaurant nestled within the thick walls of the town. ‘Your usual table?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Marco, we’ll sit outside today. It’s plenty warm enough.’

  They were led to a table in the corner of the restaurant terrace, ringed by tall terracotta pots containing white oleander. Alba ordered an Aperol Spritz, ‘Seeing as I’m getting the bus back to Badia and not driving,’ she said, explaining what had happened to her Vespa.

  ‘You mean you still have that old beast? What was it you used to call her?’

  ‘Wanda the Vespa,’ she admitted with a giggle. ‘Do you remember when you took me down to Pennabilli on your new bike and we crashed on the way home?’

  ‘How could I forget? I have the scar on my leg to remind me. It was when a herd of wild boar ran out in front of us, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And you had to wear that plaster for the rest of the summer…’

  ‘How many years ago since we saw each other?’ he asked.

  ‘Must be at least eight.’

  ‘Here’s to eight years ago, then. Cin cin!’

  As they leant into each other to clink glasses, a shadow fell across the table.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ The woman who had spoken was stunning. Her hair, shining and luxuriant, was swept up into a bouffant ponytail and large pearl earrings accentuated her tanned face. She wore a high-necked blouse with a stiff ruffle that came up to just below her chiselled cheekbones. And as she leant forward to kiss Alfiero, Alba wondered if her pouting lips might be Botoxed.

  Alfiero stood up to welcome her. ‘Beatrice, let me introduce you to my old friend, Alba.’

  Beatrice looked down at Alba who, in frayed jeans, fleece and sneakers, felt dowdy next to this pair of fashionistas.

  ‘Salve, Alba,’ she said, before turning to Alfiero to pick a speck of something from the sleeve of his navy cashmere sweater slung over his shoulders. ‘I hate you in this colour,’ she said. ‘So boring.’

  ‘Alba and I haven’t seen each other since school,’ he continued. ‘She’s joining us for lunch.’

  Beatrice sat down and placed her Gucci handbag on the empty fourth chair. ‘I’m really not hungry today, but I’ll sit with you,’ she said.

  Alba chose linguine with a tuna sauce and tucked in, while Alfiero’s girlfriend toyed with a salad of mozzarella and tomatoes, leaving half, which Alfiero scooped onto his plate after he’d finished his bistecca alla Fiorentina.

  There was so much they could have chatted about, but Beatrice seemed to put a dampener on the atmosphere, butting in whenever Alfiero mentioned anything about the past.

  As they waited for their espressos, Alba checked her watch. ‘I need to leave in five minutes for my bus.’

  Alfiero put his hand over hers. ‘There is no way you’re going on the bus. I will take you myself.’

  ‘But I thought we were meeting later, caro,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘It was only to go shopping. We can postpone that until tomorrow, surely?’

  ‘Whatever. But I made you an appointment at the tailor. Try not to miss it,’ she said, picking up her bag. ‘I might see you again, Alba. It’s been very interesting meeting somebody from my fidanzato’s past.’ Then, turning to Alfiero, she added, ‘Phone me when you’re finished.’

  Alba watched her walk away in her tight leather skirt and noted the swivel-head gazes of a couple of men dining at a table further off as she passed by.

  * * *

  Alfiero put the hood down on his black Alfa Romeo, handing Alba a headscarf to keep her long hair tidy. ‘It’s Beatrice’s, but she won’t know.’

  She noted the designer’s name signed across the edge of the scarf and hoped not.

  The drive up the hill was smoother and faster than her trip down on her Vespa and she thought she could get used to travelling this way.

  ‘So, do you work at the tourist office?’ Alba asked when they’d pulled away from town.

  ‘I manage the Arezzo office, but I commute from Sansepolcro. I have a flat here. You’ll have to come and visit.’

  ‘So, what happened to your plans to become an architect?’

  He gave her a look. ‘It was never my plan. It was my parents’ dream. I love my job in tourism. Arezzo is the headquarters of the regional tourist board and I get to see a lot of amazing places. Very satisfying. What about you? You were going somewhere with your art, weren’t you?’

  She pulled a face. ‘If I’m honest, Alfi,’ she said, using the name she’d always called him by years ago, ‘my plans were diverted.’ She paused. ‘My means-to-an-end job, working in a friend’s gallery in London, didn’t really end up anywhere. And neither did my relationship…’

  ‘New beginnings, eh?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said, leaving it there. Her grief was still raw, despite the months that had passed. It was easier to bottle it up. She didn’t want to cry in front of Alfi.

  As they passed the gates to the imposing villa, she asked him to slow down, and told him about the silverware she and Davide had discovered. ‘Egidio at the tourist office reckons it was from this old estate. And I realised this morning that everything bears the same family crest that’s on these gates. I’d love to find out more. Do you think your office or the library might be able to help? In the excitement of meeting up again, I clean forgot to ask.’

  ‘We do have lots of documents,’ he said, accelerating away from the gates and immediately slowing down again to navigate a dangerous bend where flowers had been tied to a fence post in memory of a dead biker. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Send me an email with the details.’

  ‘Thanks. Come in and have a drink,’ she suggested as they drove through the gates of the Stalla. ‘Ma and Babbo will be so pleased to see you again.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘I can’t, Alba, I’m meeting Beatrice and I’m already late. Another time.’ He leant over to hug her before she climbed out.

  She listened to the sound of his car as it navigated the bends back up the hill and went inside the stable to tell Ma and Babbo about her afternoon.

  * * *

  In bed that night, her thoughts drifted back to schooldays and Alfiero. They’d been to the cinema in a hilltop town and sat sharing a beer afterwards, discussing the film. They were due to take their final school exams in a month’s time, the Maturità, and their talk was all about what they would do afterwards. Alba was having a gap year in England, but Alfi was bound for Bologna University. They were both excited about the next phase of their lives.

  It was late when they’d left on the new motorbike that he’d received for his eighteenth birthday, a more powerful machine than the Lambretta scooter he’d used since he was fourteen. The night air had been cool, her leather jacket thin and she’d held onto him tighter to keep warm. As they drove through the tiny villages, the roar of the bike’s motor bounced off the stone houses, echoing through the darkness. She’d wondered if the noise would wake anybody. By now, she was tired and envied them their warm, cosy beds. They passed a tiny bar and she made out a group of men still playing cards at a table by the window.

  Just before they’d reached the tall bridge spanning the River Presale, an adult boar had dashed across the road in front of them. Alfiero had swerved to avoid the animal and lost control. Alba had screamed, trying to cling to Alfiero, but fell from the pillion onto the tarmac.

  He had passed out, pinned beneath the motorbike, its engine still running. She remembered how she’d tried to lift the bike from his body, but she’d hurt her arm and it was impossible. Her phone had smashed onto the tarmac when they’d crashed and just as she was beginning to despair, frightened a fire might start with the petrol leaking from the upturned bike, a car came along and the driver had helped them.

  They’d ended up at the pronto soccorso at the hospital. He’d broken his right leg and her wrist was badly sprained. Alfi had to wear a plaster cast for several weeks and her arm was in a sling. Their friends had scrawled vulgar messages on his cast and teased them about what they’d be
en up to on the bike to have ended up in the road.

  But they’d never been a couple. They were simply good friends. She’d never fancied him. After their end-of-school exams, he’d suggested they celebrate on the Mountain of the Moon.

  ‘How about we do a night walk up to the rifugio?’ he’d suggested.

  ‘Cool!’ was her response. She’d thought they’d be in a crowd. As it turned out, it was just the two of them. The walk fourteen hundred metres up the mountain was amazing, the scenery stunning, but when they’d reached the top it had begun to rain, a light drizzle at first which turned rapidly to sheets of water. They were about ten minutes away from the mountain hut where they would shelter that night, but by the time they arrived, they were soaked through. Alfiero’s leg was hurting and he’d forgotten to bring his painkillers. He was moody, unusual for him, and she’d tried to lighten him up.

  ‘Maybe the rain will stop soon, then we could light a fire and brew up hot chocolate,’ she’d suggested. ‘I’ve brought sachets we can add to hot water.’

  ‘If we can find any dry wood,’ he’d snapped.

  ‘I saw a few sticks in that lean-to. Let’s get changed first into dry clothes and get organised.’

  ‘What dry clothes?’

  ‘Didn’t you bring a change? What are you like?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Well, wrap your sleeping bag around you or something. Use some imagination.’ She remembered thinking how useless boys were.

  He’d stormed out, still in his wet clothes, and a few minutes later called to her that he’d got a fire going and she went outside to make hot drinks for them. They ate their supper in the rifugio watching the flames from the fire, and he’d calmed down eventually. It had been cosy.

  But then it had turned awkward. He’d watched her unroll her bedding onto one of the two sleeping benches and climb in.

  ‘Alba,’ he’d said.

  ‘Yeah?’ She was sleepy. The walk had been hard and steep, and her eyes were drooping with tiredness.