Alex Preston - In Love and War

‘Fascist bastards,’ she mumbles.

They are down there for what seems like hours. Esmond thinks of trips to London with his parents as a child, when Anna and he would curl up in the back seat of the car as their father drove the Lagonda home to Aston. He remembers the feeling of weightlessness, the sense of flying through the night as they snuggled under blankets, his sister’s head on his shoulder. And then, pulling into the gravel of the house’s turning circle, he would pretend to be asleep so that his father would have to carry him from the car, hauling him over his shoulder like a fireman and gripping him with his good arm until he laid him out on the bed, helped him from his clothes and smoothed his hair.

The car slows. He hears Gerald and Norman speaking and lifts himself carefully onto the seat. They are coming into the outskirts of Pisa. There are other cars on the street, a bus taking workers to their offices, but no sign of the Fiats. The car is covered in scratches and pocks. A few pieces of glass hang tremblingly from the metal frame of the windscreen. Gerald and Douglas are ashen, their hair clumped with blood, their mouths and teeth stained with it.

‘Turn here,’ Douglas says. ‘Now there. On the left.’

They make their way through a gateway into the courtyard of a long house. Gerald brings the car to a halt and turns off the engine. There is a mulberry tree in the centre of the yard with a car parked beneath it. Gerald begins to laugh.

‘Christ. I mean, Norman, bugger. I thought we were goners. What in God’s name are we going to tell the priest about his car?’

Douglas begins to laugh, too, and Esmond joins him, reaching down to draw back the blanket from where Fiamma is crouched in a terrified huddle on the floor, her face pressed into Gerald’s seat.

‘You can come out now,’ he says. ‘We’re safe. We’re all safe.’

He leans down to help her, reaching behind her head. He feels wetness.

‘Fiamma?’ he says, with a sudden lurch in his chest. ‘Fiamma?’ He turns her over and sees the whiteness of her face, the dark red, almost black pool formed beneath her. Gerald has turned and looks down at the girl now stretched out on the seat as Esmond searches her neck for a pulse.

‘What do we do?’ Esmond asks, looking first at Gerald and then at Douglas. She is not breathing, there is no heartbeat, just a small hole in the nape of her neck through which blood is seeping in a slow trickle. Esmond reaches round and puts his finger into the hole, but there is little blood left, and he prods through to tendons, wet gristle. His mind feels as if it has lost its surface, its ability to grasp hold of the car, the dusty courtyard, Douglas or Gerald. It is all depths, horror, and he lowers himself down to lie against her frail, sunken body.

Douglas turns to get out of the car.

‘I can’t have anything to do with this,’ he says. ‘After everything else. They’d kill me.’ He backs away towards the house, leaving the boys with the body of their friend. They hear a door slam, the sound of conversation. Douglas comes out of the house followed by a small man with yellowed hair and thick-rimmed spectacles. They get into a Topolino parked underneath the mulberry tree. Neither of them looks at the Alfa or its contents as they pass.

Esmond presses himself against Fiamma’s chest, Gerald reaches over to stroke her blood-matted hair. They stay like this for a long time as the city wakes around them and, even in the warmth of the morning, her body is so cold that Esmond begins to shudder. Gerald is crying and the tears clear furrows in the blood on his cheeks. Someone in the house turns a radio on and there is the sound of a ukulele. The voices of the Trio Lescano seep out into the still air of the courtyard. Finally, hopelessly, Esmond turns to Gerald and asks again, ‘What do we do now?’

Esmond Lowndes, Selected Correspondence, 1937–1939

( Italian translation by Ada Liuzzi )

Shrewsbury, Salop.

13/10/37

Dearest E –

It’s all just too horrifying for words. You must be undone. The poor girl; her poor mother. I wish I were out there to help you, darling. I had no idea the Blackshirts in Italy were such monsters. This Carità fellow sounds like a fiend — do watch out for him. Did you love her, this Fiamma? I imagine you did. At least Goad sounds like he’s been a brick. I do think you ought to write to daddy about it all. Goad is sure to let him know why you aren’t at the Institute any more.

Sorry this is rushed. I’m back in the cursed hospital. First cold snap of the autumn and I’m gurgling like a drain. Perhaps they should send me out to join you in the sunny South!

Much love to you and chin up,

Anna xx.

Welsh Frankton,

Shropshire.

October 21st ’37

Dear Esmond –

Your letter arrived in the same post as one from Harold Goad outlining the events of the end of September. The stories tally, more or less, for which you should be bloody thankful. I would have thought you might have written to me sooner — you need to face up to your misdeeds and take any punishment on the chin. I believe I’ve told you this before.

As it turns out, it sounds like you might get away with this one. The girl’s father is persona non grata, which helps. You’re lucky that the Blackshirts seem so keen to sweep the whole mess under the rug. You understand the kind of trouble you might have been in? Beyond our powers of help. I want you to be careful now. Concentrate on getting this station going and stop palling up with blasted sods and degenerates. I thought I made that clear to you before you left. This Douglas fellow sounds like the lowest of the low, one of these parasitical aesthetes happy to see the lives of others crumble to ruin as long as their own base interests are catered for. A bloody swine, and below you.

So you’re to live at the English Church? Goad explained the move in his letter. He can’t have someone under his roof who has betrayed his trust so completely. You see that, I’m sure. In exchange for him continuing to sponsor your undertakings in Florence, I’ve agreed to find his son a place at the Party headquarters. Is he a good chap, this Gerald? A solid Fascist like his father?

I understand that the studio is operational — well done for this. The stations in Heligoland and Sark are bringing in a not insubstantial amount of cash. It’s imperative that Florence begins to make its own contribution. Goad tells me he has plans for two hours of programming a day. Harder to fill than you might think, or so I’d imagine. Have you thought about contacting Ezra Pound? He’s been writing for The Blackshirt and Action, a new newspaper Mosley has set up. He’s in Rapallo, near Genoa. I think he’s probably insane, but his ideas about Social Credit are not so far from the Corporate State, and he can certainly string together a sentence. I enclose some recent discs of Mosley’s speeches that you might like to broadcast.

You will also find enclosed a list of Italian businessmen Rothermere has sounded out as potential advertisers for the wireless station. They will expect you to contact them over the next few weeks. Make sure that you do. Seize the hour, Esmond! Things are looking up for you now — all the nonsense is behind you. Get your head down and put your back into it. Good luck and be a bloody man!

Your mother sends her love,

Your Father.

P.S. You asked if you might draw upon the wireless funds to pay for repairs to the automobile you damaged during your hapless trip to Pisa. No.

P.P.S. The priest you’re staying with is Frederick Bailey, isn’t he? I met a God-botherer called Bailey in the First Battle of the Marne. Brave fellow if it’s the same chap (and you know what I think of priests as a species).