Perseverance Street (36 page)

‘It will be my pleasure, Signore Charlie.’

After Gianni left Lily said, ‘According to Brenda this Mancini bloke couldn’t have children and he wanted a son to take home to his wife after the war. I’m guessing he did it to ingratiate himself with her family. A son to continue the Cominelli family line – my son.’

‘Bloody hell!’
said Dee. ‘I’ve heard soldiers like to bring souvenirs home but that’s taking it too far.’

Under other circumstances the gondola trip down the Grand Canal would have been enjoyable. It was a bright day in early December and the temperature was probably in the mid-forties, cold enough for them all to have their coats wrapped round them. But it was a silent journey, with Gianni picking up on the fact that their visit to the Cominelli family was not to be a joyous occasion. He didn’t envy them their visit. Crossing swords with powerful families was a dangerous occupation in Venezia.

After twenty minutes Gianni pointed to a fabulous
palazzo
to their right. The one Charlie had been admiring the night before paled into insignificance beside this one. ‘That is Palazzo Cominelli. I will have to put you off down there on landing stage.’

‘How do we get in the
palazzo
without getting wet?’ Charlie asked.

Gianni laughed at this Englishman’s joke. ‘I will give you the directions to get in from street. I would warn you that the Cominellis are very private family. They may not let you in their home too easily.’

‘I think
they might,’ said Charlie, who had a plan of sorts.

‘Okey dokey, Mr Charlie.’

Gianni took the gondola another few hundred yards down the canal and brought it in to a small, wooden landing stage, then leaped off and tied his craft to a plain mooring pole. The three of them followed him on to dry land. They were at the side of one of the many small canals that ran at right angles to the Grand Canal. Gianni now gave them directions.

‘You are now about three hundred metres from Palazzo Cominelli. This is as near as I can bring you. From here you walk down this pathway then turn right over bridge and down street in front of you. You will come to canal where you turn right and then left over another bridge.’ He paused for thought before continuing. ‘Then you turn right for ten metres and left over bridge, down another street in front of you where you will see school and church? After the church is garden and after this is Palazzo Cominelli. You will not mistake it. Is beautiful and very enormous. The cost of this is one thousand lira.’

‘Here, keep the change.’ Charlie stuck a pound note in Gianni’s hand and thanked him for his help.

Lily’s heart
was pounding as they walked alongside the canal towards the first bridge. Moored at the side of the canal was a boat full of fruit and vegetables with a canvas canopy over it. An old Venetian woman dressed in dark clothing was buying fruit and a gondola was gliding by on the way to the Grand Canal. A dog trotted along the path on the opposite side of the canal, followed by two small children, presumably on their way to school. It was a place without wheels; a place without cars or buses or trams; a place of decrepit magnificence, built on wooden piles hammered into a hundred islands a thousand years ago. All the buildings were three to six storeys high to squeeze as much floor space as possible on to the limited ground area. The streets were high and narrow and largely shaded from the sun. It was a city of lavish, unashamed beauty but with an air of timeless tranquility about it. Everything seemed so ordinary to its inhabitants, but there was nothing ordinary about this day or about this place to Lily. The whole damned world was as abnormal as it could get.

They crossed the stone bridge and headed up a very narrow street, at the end of which was another canal where they turned right and then left over another bridge. A man in a motor boat with a dog at the bow was passing under the bridge. He was dressed in a business suit and had a briefcase on board. Charlie guessed the dog was there to guard the boat while the man was at his business. Every building was a work of decaying beauty. Delicately carved religious statues occupied alcoves in walls and from the stone rainwater gutters at the tops of buildings, weatherbeaten gargoyles leered down on them, as though delighted at their hopeless quest. The breathtaking texture, the fading colours, the plant life growing from the walls all added to the unique atmosphere of this strange and splendid city on the sea.

‘Right for ten metres, then left over another bridge,’ Dee reminded him.

‘Then down
the street in front of us,’ added Charlie, who had safely memorised Gianni’s directions. The street beyond this bridge was wider. There was a shop selling beautiful Murano glass, a clothes shop, a tobacco shop, a restaurant and a school, outside which many young children were milling. Lily looked at them and wondered if this was the school to which her son would be going. In England he’d have started Quarry Mount junior school school back in September. This looked to be a good school, better than Quarry Mount. Then a thought struck her. Maybe Michael had started school. Maybe he was one of these children. She held up a staying hand.

‘Could we stop for a minute?’

Charlie and Dee looked at each other, then at the children whose ages ranged from five upwards. They both understood. They both scanned the young faces, having only a photograph to go on. Charlie saw one young boy whom he thought might be Michael.

‘The boy by the wall, standing facing us.’

Lily shook her head. There were only half a dozen boys young enough to have been Michael. He wasn’t here. They moved on. Beyond the school stood a large church beside a public garden and beyond the garden a large
palazzo
, enclosed by an eight-foot-high wall. Set in the wall was an iron gate and beside it, painted on to the stone, the faded number 4081. Beyond the gate was a garden which, Charlie guessed, would be very beautiful in the summer. The garden was enclosed on three sides by the
palazzo
. At the side of the gate a rope dangled, attached to a bell on top of the wall. He pulled on the rope and set the bell jangling. Dee said, ‘I’ll be off then.’

‘You’ve got the note?’ said Charlie.

Dee took a piece
of paper from her pocket and showed it to him. ‘I hope you write good Italian as well as speak it,’ she said.

‘Like a native,’ said Charlie.

‘Don’t forget to speak English in there.’

‘I know exactly what to do, bossyboots. It’s my plan, remember?’

He said it with a smile to ease the tension she was obviously feeling. Dee nodded, then turned and went on her way. Charlie watched her go. Her part in this was of the utmost importance. Lily had said nothing. Her heart was too near her mouth for speech. A woman who looked to be some sort of servant came to the gate. She asked if she could help them.

‘Posso aiutarvi?’

‘Major Mancini,’ said Charlie politely, in English. ‘We’re looking for Major Mancini.’

The woman stared at him, suspiciously, for a while, before turning and leaving them at the gate. ‘Do you think she’s gone to get him?’ asked Lily. ‘She didn’t look too helpful to me.’

They waited a few minutes, then Charlie rang the bell again. The old woman reappeared. He was polite once more.

‘Major Mancini
per favore
.’

The woman left. Lily said, ‘You spoke Italian.’

‘Most English tourists know the odd phrase. I said it in an English accent. I wish I’d changed some money now. I could have bribed her. We’ll have to find one of those money-changing places later.’

A few more minutes
later Charlie was about to ring the bell for a third time when a man came to the gate. He was dressed in civilian clothes but looked about right for a major, and about the right age to fit Brenda’s description of Mancini – mid-forties.

‘Major Mancini, I presume,’ said Charlie brightly.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m here to represent Mr Bert Pinkney with whom you stayed for a while.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Bert Pinkney. You stayed on his farm in Yorkshire. He used to pick up money for you from London.’

The horrified look on Mancini’s face told both Charlie and Lily that this was the man who’d taken Michael. Horrified that someone from his past had tracked him down here.

‘I do not know this Bert Pinkney.’

‘Oh, I think you do, Major. You know Bert and his son Ezra – oh, and Sergeant Bernard Randle, of course. I’m just a messenger, Major. I’ve come all this way to deliver you a message from good old Bert.’

‘What message?’

‘I don’t want to give you this message with iron bars between us, Major. Would you let us in please so that we can have a civilised talk?’

Mancini looked at Lily. ‘And who is this woman?’

‘She’s with me, Major, that’s all you need to know. I’ve also had instructions from Bert Pinkney to go to the
carabinieri
if you give me problems. So, can I come in, please? It’s for the best.’

‘What is it you’re after: money?’

‘Could be, Major. It
should be worth lots of money for me to keep quiet about what you got up to in England. The British police are currently looking for the missing boy and they don’t take too kindly to Italians who reward our hospitality by stealing our children. Imagine how such a disgrace would besmirch the Cominelli family name. But there’s no need for the police to know, is there?’

Mancini gave an angry frown and took a key from his pocket. He opened the gate to let them in.

‘Don’t lock the gate,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ll be letting ourselves out.’

Mancini led them through the garden to a covered courtyard beyond, in which was a round table and six chairs. At the end of the courtyard a balcony led into the main building. Lily looked up at the balcony in the vain hope of seeing Michael. The Italian sat down without making any gesture for Charlie and Lily to do likewise. They both sat down without being invited.

‘How much do you want?’ asked Mancini.

‘First we want to see Michael,’ said Lily. We want to see that no harm has come to him.’

‘Why would harm have come to him? You cannot see him. I will not have him distressed like this.’

Charlie got to his feet, as did Lily. ‘In that case we have no further business to discuss,’ said Charlie. ‘Come on, Lily. We’ll discuss it all with the
carabinieri
. They can contact the British police about the missing boy, who’s obviously here.’

They headed
back to the gate and were almost there when Mancini called them back. Lily breathed a sigh of relief that their bluff hadn’t been called.

‘I will call Michele.’

Lily’s heart leaped. As they turned a woman appeared. She was around the same age as Mancini and carried an air of refined beauty that came with great privilege and wealth.

‘Who are these people?’ she asked Mancini in Italian.

‘These people come from England to ask about Michele. They helped me bring him over here.’

The woman gave them a serene smile and beckoned for them to sit down. ‘And you wish to see our son?’ she said in perfect English.

My son?
Her words Lily grated with Lily. Charlie spoke for them both. ‘Yes, we’d love to see him.’

‘Then you shall.’

Charlie looked at Mancini, who was trying to appear unconcerned. Lily’s heart was pounding as Signora Mancini got up and rang a bell at the side of the courtyard to summon the maid who appeared almost before the bell had stopped pealing. She asked the maid to bring Michele.

What seemed to Lily to be an age passed before she heard a door open behind her. Charlie was sitting opposite her and saw the boy first. ‘Michael,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘We call him Michele now,’ said Signora Mancini.

Lily drew in a
deep breath and stared at Charlie, knowing her son was standing behind her and not daring to look round at him. Frightened that he might not know who she was. Frightened that he might not want to be taken away from this luxury. She heard Michael speak and she recognised his voice. It was most definitely her son.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Michael said to Charlie.

‘No, but you know who this lady is don’t you, Michael?’ Charlie nodded at Lily, urging her to look round.

Lily slowly turned. Her eyes were glistening with tears. Not ten feet away from her was Michael. She’d found him.

‘Hello, Michael,’ she said gently.

He looked slightly older, taller, slightly less of a child, but he looked well cared for. He was beautifully dressed in a sailor suit that looked to have been tailored for him. He stared at Lily for a long moment, then turned his attention to Mancini’s wife – his new mother. Lily’s heart almost stopped with shock. He didn’t know her. Her eyes flooded. She could hardly catch her breath. Charlie got to his feet and smiled at the boy.

‘You know who this lady is don’t you, Michael?’

Michael gave a slight nod, then looked at the ground sullenly. Then he spoke. Not quite the words his mother might have been longing for, but good enough words all the same. Words that told her that her son still knew exactly who he was and who she was and to whom he rightfully belonged.

‘Why did you send me away?’

‘He didn’t send you away,’ said Mancini’s wife, who’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick. ‘He helped you to come and live with us.’

‘Michael wasn’t talking to Charlie,’ said Lily quietly. ‘He was talking to me.’

Signora Mancini
looked at Michael, then at Lily. The boy was looking at his mother with a reproachful look on his face.

‘Who is this woman?’ said Mancini, now concerned.

‘Take a guess,’ said Charlie, watching the unfolding reunion with a smile on his face.

Lily went over and knelt in front of her son, hugging him to her. Eventually Michael’s arms came round her and hugged her back. The Mancinis looked on in horror as Lily spoke to Michael. Lily could hardly see him through her tears.

‘That nasty man who took you in his car tricked me,’ she said. ‘Then he gave you to these people for money. I didn’t send you away. You were stolen from me.’

She wasn’t certain how much Michael remembered. She just hoped she was jogging what memory he had.