Tears of Autumn, The (5 page)

In the morning there wasn’t time for such dalliances, as they overslept and had to be awakened in a hurry in order to get the Rome express. He managed to get that very day’s
Manchester Guardian
, of all things, from a new arrival at the Ritz, who’d flown to Paris that morning. They jumped into the taxi the doorman was holding for them.

On the way through the Paris streets he noticed that the newsstands carried more
München
announcements, only this time the name Daladier featured more prominently.

Settled on the train, so excitingly and distinctlively foreign from the ones at home, Rosemary was absolutely in her seventh heaven.

‘Oh, I’m so glad we came, aren’t you darling? Fancy being stuck in the cottage in the Gloucestershire rain.’

He chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. We could have had more fun this morning if we had been.’

She gave him a stern look, but her eyes were twinkling. ‘I haven’t married a monster, have I?’

He grinned. ‘We shall have to see.’

As they rolled through the flat lands and wide fields south of Paris he began to read the paper.

He looked up, watched the steam drifting away across the fields as they picked up speed. It had obviously been a dreadful worry to many people, more than his young generation had realized. He read on:

It was all very encouraging. As he lowered the paper his eyes found Rosemary. She looked radiant, and happy. At least she would have the honeymoon she had dreamed of. That, at least, for the moment, was something to be thankful for.

Everybody seemed to be laughing. Biff suddenly realized that it was evoked by the senior judge, making his speech at the luncheon. He’d just told an anecdote where the ceremonial splendour of judges and high sheriff in procession at an opening of the law year somewhere, had taken the wrong turning, and filed in solemn, glorious order through a working court, and out through another door, much to the sitting judge’s amazement, to say nothing of that of the terrified defendant.

The speech ended with a toast to the high sheriff. Biff tried to get to his feet, but they were all too quick for him. The woman put her hand reassuringly on his shoulder and gently restrained him. ‘It’s all right. They don’t expect it.’ She meant well, but it left him feeling sad and old; old and lonely. He looked around the room. Apart from Jimmy on the next table there was nobody left from his generation. He shook his head sadly and reached for his glass of wine.
Nobody
.

He didn’t count those lost during the war of course – how could you,
that
was different – and unforgettable – but afterwards, when they had been starting out afresh. To begin with you lost the odd friend – illness or accident when you were in your forties. Nothing happened then for twenty years, until slowly the Grim Reaper started his work, and at last it dawned on you that there were an awful lot of faces suddenly not around any more. Then death began to get closer, personal, until finally
… even now he got he got a lump in his throat. Maybe it was his age: he was an old man who couldn’t control his emotions.

‘Dad – you all right?’

It was his daughter, who had quietly come across the room, looking concerned.

‘Yes, dear – just thinking of your mother.’

He patted her hand as it rested on his shoulder.

The high sheriff moved to the microphone, shuffled his notes. ‘Your Grace, my lords, ladies and gentlemen.’

His daughter scuttled back to her seat.

He remembered his own speech, back in 1988, with his wife watching him from the other side of the table. He’d spoken of tradition, of men who should have been there, who had been denied their life, denied the chance to have children, to see them grow up, go through school, university, marriage and have grandchildren. And the tragedy was on the other, enemy, side as well – whatever the circumstances, whoever was to blame. He had glanced across at his wife who nodded, as if to say thank you for not forgetting.

The taxi picked its way through the bustling streets of Sorrento, the driver honking his horn, gesticulating and shouting at anyone holding up his progress.

Rosemary clung to his arm.

‘My God – does he think this is a race or something?’

Biff grinned. ‘I can see why they love their Grands Prix.’

His gaze went back to his window. Little restaurants and cafés were everywhere, occupying any part of the pavement that was allowed.

Little old women dressed in black haggled as they felt and tested the fruit and vegetables beneath the picturesque and peeling walls of old sun-drenched town houses and apartments. And everywhere there were churches.

Horses, carts, and motor cars clogged the narrow streets, but every now and then the shimmering blue water of the Bay of
Naples showed between the buildings.

He noticed the gardens, growing all sorts of vegetables, and with vines curling around little trellised terraces. Obviously the heart of every Italian town-dweller still belonged in the country.

And then he saw a group of stern-looking men on the corner of a junction.
Il
Duce
’s men in their black shirts and ties, silver collar patches and grey-green trousers, topped by black fezzes with tassels. Somehow it didn’t seem to chime with the sunny disposition of the Italians. Still, he had to admit the trains were spotless and ran on time, just as everybody had said, and the streets were very clean. From their carriage window they’d seen a huge straight road near Naples which had been built by Mussolini for the ever growing number of cars. He’d heard about
autobahns
, as they were called in Germany. Some said there was a military purpose behind them.

Eventually they reached a wider square from which roads led in all directions. Here were larger restaurants with outdoor tables, partly under cover, as in Paris, with shady Roman pine trees in abundance. It was the centre of Sorrento, the Piazza Tasse. The taxi swung through a gateway flanked by large stone columns and open wrought-iron gates. Biff just caught a glimpse of a sign bearing the name of the hotel in gold-coloured lettering. He squeezed her hand. ‘Here we are, darling.’

The long, straight driveway led them through five acres of golden orange groves and bright flowers before opening into a wide turning circle dominated by pine trees, and, framed by the deep-blue sea behind it, a magnificent nineteenth-century building, its large windows adorned with green louvred shutters.

The car drew to a halt before the main entrance. Immediately a uniformed commissionaire came down the steps and opened Biff’s door as a porter in a similarly coloured jacket made a beeline for the back of the vehicle with his barrow.

Biff stepped out and was greeted with a salute and a ‘Buon
giorno, signore
.’

He nodded and smiled as he turned and held out his hand to
help Rosemary as she slid across the leather of the back seat.

She stood up, blinking in the strong sunlight, and gazed at the façade of the hotel.

‘Biff, it’s just beautiful.’

He paid the driver and started up the steps with her.

‘This is where Enrico Caruso stayed in 1921.’

‘Did Queen Victoria come – is that why it’s called Victoria?’

He shrugged. ‘No idea, but we can ask. Certainly the British have been staying here for years. Edward VII came in 1910.’

They entered a cool hallway with a floor of blue and white marble squares which now had a worn, aged look that added to the feeling of elegance. Two huge porcelain jars flanked the reception desk. To the left a grand staircase led up to a landing where a large statue from classical antiquity stood in an alcove, the cream walls decorated with frescoes of heraldic and Grecian designs.

They reached the reception desk, made of dark mahogany. A man in a black coat and stripped trousers came forward to greet them.

‘Mr and Mrs Banks? My name is Georgio Catino. I am the manager and may I personally welcome you to the Victoria.’

Biff took the proffered hand, followed by Rosemary, who said: ‘Thank you. It’s beautiful.’

‘Thank you,
signora
. I hope you had a good journey?’

Biff nodded. ‘Yes. Your trains are excellent.’

Catino beckoned a clerk forward to attend to them.

It was then that Biff noticed another man at the back of the reception area in a dark suit. He seemed to be paying them an inordinate amount of attention – actually staring at them.

Catino noticed that Biff was frowning and said quickly: ‘We shall need to keep your passports for a day or so, and you need to fill in these rather large forms, I’m afraid. Modern travel is so much more complicated than it used to be, is it not?’

He said it apologetically.

Biff handed over their stiff-covered dark-blue passports.

The clerk took them and turned away as Biff started to fill in the rather detailed form, which he found irritating. The manager realized this and fussed around, trying to help.

Biff looked up to ask Rosemary something and noticed that the man in the dark suit was already studying their passports, looking up occasionally in their direction, then resuming his study. Biff realized he must be with immigration or the frontier police, or something official.

He glowered. ‘Is everything all right?’

The man eyed him before replying: ‘I see you are a pilot, Mr Banks.’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘What do you fly?’

‘Aeroplanes.’ Biff didn’t try to hide the sarcasm in his voice, but he wondered if they were going to get on to the fact that he was in the Royal Air Force – a
military
pilot.

Suddenly the man snapped the passport shut and unexpectedly grinned.

‘You are on your honeymoon, I believe?’

Frowning, Biff said: ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

Still smiling, but retaining the passports, the man nodded at Rosemary.

‘Such a beautiful young lady. Obviously much in love. I hope you have a wonderful time in our country. I think you will be impressed by what you see.
Il Duce
has made great changes.’

With that he gave a little bow, turned on his heel and went through a door in the back.

Catino was visibly relieved.

Biff asked, ‘Who was that?’

The manager looked uncomfortable. ‘Signore Franchetti of the
Milizia di Frontiera
– one of
II Duce
’s men.

Biff nodded. ‘I see. A major, no less.’

He knew the rank structure of the Blackshirts from a RAF briefing.

Catino gestured with his hands towards the staircase.

‘Yes, yes. Now, let me show you to your room.’ His face beamed. ‘If you have no objection we would like to offer you one of our top suites – at no extra charge,’ he added hurriedly.

Biff was genuinely surprised.

‘Why, that’s awfully decent of you. Is there any reason?’

‘Because you are honeymooners, and besides, we don’t have as many visitors as we used to, so we have the room. Please, it will be my pleasure.’

Impatient with Biff, Rosemary butted in.

‘Why, thank you, Mr Catino. We are pleased to accept.’

They followed the manager as he escorted them up the stairs and put the key in to one of a pair of double doors.

‘Here we are.’

He opened the door and stood aside for them. Rosemary went first, and Biff almost bumped into her because she had stopped so abruptly.

The room was large, with a painted ceiling depicting gods and goddesses being borne by chariots over fluffy clouds. The walls were covered in silk of a faint gold hue. Between two french windows draped in matching silk curtains was a white marble fireplace.

Assorted sofas and chairs were placed around it, while a delicate writing bureau and chair were placed against the opposite wall. The marble floor was covered with two huge Persian rugs.

‘Good heavens.’ Rosemary found her voice. ‘It’s beautiful.’

Catino beamed, and opened another double door.

‘And this is your bedroom.’

They followed him into another room, this time with no frescoes. The vast bed was set against one pale blue wall, which showed off the elaborate headboard. There was another marble fireplace, and a table and chairs in the style of Louis XVI, and rugs filled the room, with huge wardrobes and chests of drawers spaced around the walls.

‘Here is the bathroom.’

Catino opened a concealed door and flicked on a light-switch.

The honey-coloured marble was laid from floor to ceiling. Lights were reflected in the large mirrors above the two art deco basins.

Rosemary just looked in, then said; ‘It’s sumptuous.’

‘I hope you will enjoy your stay with us. If there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

Their luggage arrived. Two porters placed their cases on a table, Rosemary’s hatbox on the bed, and trunk in the corner.

‘Would you like a maid to unpack for you?’

Rosemary chuckled. ‘No, that’s quite all right thank you. I like doing it myself.’

‘Of course.’

After further pleasantries Catino withdrew. They looked at each other for a second, then Biff picked Rosemary up and swung her around as they laughed, then kissed.

He said: ‘It’s wonderful, darling. We’ll remember this for the rest of our lives.’

She agreed. ‘But why do you think they’ve done this?’

He made for one of the french doors.

‘I expect it’s because fewer people are travelling with all this talk of war.’

He threw open the doors and stepped out on to a large terrace, the stone balustrade marked at each end by a Roman bust.

‘Come and look at this.’

The view was spectacular. The hotel was on a cliff edge so they were looking down on to the harbour some two to three hundred feet below, where a paddle steamer churned the water as it manoeuvred to head out to sea to Capri. Along to their right the cliff edge of Sorrento was solid with old hotels and buildings built right to the edge.

Opposite, across the Bay of Naples loomed Europe’s only mainland volcano: Mount Vesuvius, looking quiescent in the haze.

Hundreds of little sailing boats plied out of the harbour. The
steamer sounded its siren several times, and began to make headway, leaving a white wake of foam in the deep blue which turned to clear sparkling green in the shadows. He put his arm around her as she came and stood beside him.

‘Isn’t that just marvellous?’ She placed her arm around him.

‘Darling, you can see why I wanted to come here now?’

He gave her a squeeze as she added: ‘Thanks for putting up with the journey.’

He smiled and kissed the side of her head. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by ancient Rome. We can visit Pompeii from here. You know about Pompeii, don’t you?’

She scolded him.

‘Do you think we girls don’t get the same lessons as you boys? Do you think we get just cookery and Jane Austen?’

‘Sorry.’

She took his hand and led him back into the coolness of the room. There was no question about what she intended as she sat on the bed and kicked off her shoes.

‘Well, husband, to your duty.’

Biff still couldn’t get over her lack of shyness. Even on their second attempt at being married he had been fumbling all over the place until Rosemary had taken positive action and guided him into her – digging her nails into his back as she winced, just the once.

It was only now that he was beginning to realize that an educated, horse-loving woman of the thirties was not like the girls he had dreamed about.

So he ran his hand boldly up her leg and under her skirt to the top of her stocking, and on over her smooth skin and suspender.