Read Online Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston - Free Book Online Page A

He falls a lot and looks ancient. Of course he was old when we were born (especially me). I know that Alyson is pretty worried. The farm’s not in good nick either. Alyson keeps reminding me that it all now belongs to you. I daresay you won’t turf us out if anything happens to Daddy but might you be able to give us an idea of future plans? I, for one, am loving being back in the choir and, guess what? I’ve been made senior scout. Needless to say, Daddy would welcome a visit from you. That is to say, if you can spare the time.’
    The letter went on to tell of the poor condition of farm machinery. Roof tiles damp here and there. No trace of affection from his brother.
    Malise could, of course, not spare time to visit Hertfordshire just then but replied, by letter that evening, that before long he was certain to present himself. What if Christian managed to usurp him? Probably not legally possible at this late stage.
    Following days were taken up with preparation for the drive in Ruggles to Patricia’s country hideaway. Not far from Lucca. Barely twenty kilometres. Funny to have a country retreat so near to the city – but Italians always made a habit of travelling short distances to their hideaways. He decided, although it was a wrench for him, to leave his Teddy bear behind. He didn’t want Antonio asking questions.
    He made a pile of boyish objects – likely to be useful and to impress. Hammock. Torch. Matches. Knife. Rope. Candles. A stretch of tarpaulin. Spirit lamp. He would set up a camp – somewhere in the woods that Antonio had talked to him about. Foodstuffs. Non perishables. They were heaped in a corner of the apartment. Several basket loads to raise and lower.

 
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
    Â 
26
 
    Off he set, through arches under the city walls, and off towards the hills. Ruggles bulged with props.
    His person, his overall frame, looked pretty good, Malise decided, as he guided the Lagonda through ribbons of village development that had sprung up, helter-skelter, since the war.
    Bars, bikes, neon signs. He smiled at quaintness as he read a placard advertising ‘Warm Dogs.’ A new and distorted influence from America. A sure party punch line.
    He stopped at a
rotisseria
where he bought grilled chicken wings, salami slices and delicacies.
    Then, past olives, vines, plane trees, presses, pizzerias, bridges and dirty ditches. Italian ditches were, on the whole, murky and awash with dead rats. He blanked out the war years – apart from remembering that he was a Captain. A popular figure in and among brave people of the resistance.
    It was perplexing – trying to translate the instructions of a nine year old. Up, round, under, rutted lanes, broken buildings, ditches, streams, shaky telegraph poles. A small village where he stopped at a shop and asked for the whereabouts of an English family.
    When he knew he was near his destination, he left his precious car near by a wrecked barn and walked up a hill, carrying little equipment. It would not do to look as if he planned to settle. Might the husband be there?
    The small house was built into a hill and encircled by pine woods. All around were streams, olive trees and birds – in spite, he noted, of the mercilessness of the hunters who were famous for shooting at every bumble bee. Paths were littered with empty cartridges.
    She was there, standing on a rough terrace in a pale muslin frock. Hair held back by a pink ribbon. Beside her stood Antonio who squealed in delight and left her side. ‘Sir. Sir. Will you take me for an adventure? Is your car here?’
    Malise stood firm and tall, puffing out his rib cage. ‘Hello. I’ve traced you. What a place!’
    Patricia, puzzled, asked how he had found them. They were very isolated. No telephone. No actual address. He answered that Antonio had been accurate in his instructions but that he had, also, asked one or two of the locals for ‘Inglese’ in the