To Vittoria’s amazement the Englishman laughed. ‘The British never want to fight, Signore. They look for other ways of resolving problems, diplomacy, discussion, because they’re sane. Only crazy people want to kill or be killed. What good is that for trade? But if we are forced into war …’ He shrugged cheerfully. ‘Well, we haven’t lost one for a thousand years, you know.’
Reddening, Leo barked, ‘You haven’t fought us yet!’
The Englishman’s bright blue eyes smiled and his mouth curled up at the edges. He did not seem worried or frightened by Leo’s temper. His manner was always the same, calm, friendly, faintly amused. ‘True, not since the days of the Romans, but you haven’t been fighting many wars, have you?’
For some reason that remark made Leo’s face stiffen with rage.
Frederick turned to Anna. ‘These are delicious sandwiches, Signora. I’ve not eaten ham as good as this since I left England.’
‘It comes from a farm up in the hills. They breed the pigs themselves. Their cured ham is expensive, but it is the best in Italy.’
‘I’ve never tasted better.’ He turned to look down into Vittoria’s eyes. Nobody else had noticed her, sitting silent as a mouse, very small and still, next to her mother, nibbling at a slice of cake and catching the crumbs in her palm to lick them off quickly before they melted. ‘Do you still remember the little poem I taught you last week?’
Blushing as everyone around the table stared at her, Vittoria nodded. She was always both nervous and elated when she attracted any attention, especially in front of her terrifying but wonderful father.
‘Will you say the first verse for us?’
She hesitated. Her mother took her hand. ‘Yes, say it for us, darling.’
She hung her head.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Leo Serrati boomed. ‘Do as you’re told, girl!’
Vittoria began in a rush, ‘I have a little shadow …’ afraid she would forget the words, but she managed to finish the verse without a mistake.
‘Well done!’ Frederick congratulated her. ‘Your daughter has a good memory, Signore, and a head for mathematics. You must send her to a modern girls’ school when she’s old enough.’
Leo Serrati scowled. ‘Girls don’t need an expensive education. I don’t intend her to be a typist or to work in a shop. She’ll marry, of course. The convent school is the best place for a girl – the nuns will teach her all she needs to know to make a good wife.’
Frederick looked at Anna, who gazed back at him, her pink mouth ironic.
A week later over breakfast Leo Serrati waved a newspaper at his wife. ‘See? Il Duce has ordered the British out of the country. Your wonderful Englishman will have to go, too. He needn’t think I’ll lift a finger to save him.’
Ignoring him, Anna helped Vittoria to a warm brioche with some of the home-made black cherry jam from last year. Vittoria bit into it, wishing she dared ask why the British were being sent away.
Later that morning Frederick Canfield arrived while Leo Serrati was at work, the boys at school and only Anna and Vittoria at home. They were sitting by the window, in the gentle sunlight of early summer, sewing with the radio on. As soon as she saw him, Anna leant over to switch it off.
‘You’re leaving?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’
Vittoria was startled to see tears in her mother’s eyes. ‘What a terrible world this is! This time next year we could all be dead.’
The child sat up straight and pale, frightened. What did her mother mean?
Frederick knelt down by Anna’s chair and took her hands. ‘Don’t despair, my dearest Anna. This evil thing must end one day. We’ll have good times again. Won’t you take me for one last walk through your lovely garden so that I can remember it when I’m back in England?’ He lifted the hands he held to his mouth, kissing each one on the palm with the reverence people showed to the statue of Our Lady in the church.
Anna Serrati looked at her daughter. ‘Signor Canfield and I are going to walk in the garden. Stay here, Vittoria, and get on with your sewing. I won’t be long. You’ll be able to see us from here, don’t worry.’
Obediently Vittoria stayed where she was, sitting on her chair, her short, plump legs stuck out in front of her, like a doll’s, and went on primly with the handkerchief she was making. There were spots of blood here and there where she had pricked her finger with the needle, and smudges of dirt from when she had once forgotten to wash her hands before beginning work but her sewing was improving. Mamma said she would soon be good at keeping the stitches small and neat.
Now and then she looked out of the window. Her mother and Signor Canfield were walking away from her across the lawns. Their hands hung loose at their sides. Vittoria’s plump pink mouth opened in a gasp as she saw the fingers brush, entwine, break free again. Her mother had held hands with the Englishman. Vittoria felt uneasy, the way she did when she was going to be sick from eating too many honey cakes.
The garden looked at its best in early June before the sun grew too hot and the grass dried into pale, rustling hay. The roses were in full bloom; golden brown bees hummed drunkenly around those great pink flowers whose golden hearts left pollen on your finger if you touched them. Vittoria loved their heady scent, it made her head swim. She watched disapprovingly as Frederick picked a new, tightly closed bud. Papa would have been very cross if he’d seen that. Then the Englishman kissed the rosebud, before offering it to Mamma, who kissed it, too, then slid it down inside her neckline so that it lay hidden against her breast.
Vittoria didn’t understand what was happening, but she was frightened. She wanted to scream, call her mother back, as though Anna was being taken away from her.
Her head filled with images she always tried to forget – the things that had happened on her birthday. Papa pushing her nurse down on to Mamma’s bed and doing those strange, frantic things to her. She didn’t really understand what she had seen but she knew it had been bad. Was her mother … Had her mother … done that with Signor Canfield? Or was she going to now?