*
At the apartment on the Via Rosso, Guy bathed and changed his clothes. Afterwards, the cook-housekeeper, who had already unpacked his bag and put away his things, prepared a meal for them, and Guy and his mother sat picking at their food in the dining room overlooking the street.
Later, about ten o’clock, he kissed his mother on the cheek and went to bed. Lying there in the dark he thought of his father’s grave condition, and felt anxious to get back to see him the next day. If his father should end up crippled it would surely have a devastating effect upon the old man, and if he should be seriously disabled there could be no doubt that so much more responsibility would fall upon Guy’s shoulders.
Just before he went to sleep he thought back over the previous days, from the time of receiving his mother’s wire to his arrival in the Italian city – and somewhere in all that rush of activity had been his meeting with Lydia. How far away that all seemed right now.
That week with Lydia had gone so fast, he thought. How could it have gone so swiftly? The walk in the park, the visit to the theatre, the dinner at the inn in the country, the picnic by the lake. Yes, the picnic by the lake. He had little happiness in his memories of that, particularly when thinking of what had happened at the very end. Now that he looked back on it, everything had happened
too
fast. Of course he had been so attracted to her; how could he not have been? But had it been a feeling deeper than that? So much had happened in such a short space of time, and he seemed unable to grasp the reality of his feelings. She was a beautiful, personable girl – but their very closeness at the end now left him feeling guilty and a little resentful. Resentful, perhaps, because the happening had inspired his guilt, and guilt is always difficult to suffer. He had not meant for it all to go so far, he was aware of that, and now
he was touched with remorse. Had he compromised her situation? Was he getting in too deep? He recalled, too, seeing the bloodstain on the rug. If he had thought about it he would have known that she’d had no experience, but he had not allowed himself to ponder on such things. Instead, he had let himself be swept up in the delicious, captivating thrill of the moment, and now it was too late; nothing could be done. He could not go back and rewrite the tale. And so what now? Well, he had told Lydia that he would write, and so he would. He would write to her as soon as he got the chance. There would be time enough in the next few days.
In her room in Redbury, Lydia lay in her narrow bed and thought of Guy, and wondered whether he had arrived safely at his destination, and how he had found his father. With luck Mr Anderson would soon recover, and Guy would be able to return. In the meantime he would be writing to her. She prayed he would. He had said he would. She would wait to hear . . .
On Wednesday morning, as soon as visitors were permitted, Guy and his mother returned to the hospital in the piazza. There in the vestibule the senior nurse told them in her halting English that Mr Anderson had not slept well, due to the pain in his legs, particularly the right one. He had been given chloral hydrate to help deaden the pain, she said, and after a time he had managed to sleep.
‘And how is he today?’ Mrs Anderson asked.
The nun said, ‘Dr MacElroy was here again this morning early to examine Mr Anderson. I am sorry to say that he is not pleased, but tomorrow, perhaps, it will be better. The doctor will be here again in the morning. He has asked to meet you and your son at that time.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Anderson replied.
‘At ten o’clock, yes?’
‘Yes, we’ll be here then.’
Minutes later, on entering his father’s hospital room, Guy watched as his mother kissed her husband on the cheek, pressed his hand and asked how he was. He replied that he was feeling not too bad, considering everything. Guy moved to the bed then, and took his father’s hand in his own, and thought how drained and exhausted he looked.
‘The Sister told us you slept badly,’ Guy said.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it wasn’t so good.’ Mr Anderson nodded his head slightly on the pillow. ‘The pain in my right leg was so bad, it wouldn’t let me sleep. I drifted off towards morning when they gave me something to drink. A little chloral, I believe.’ He pressed Guy’s hand. ‘Anyway, how are you, son? Have you quite recovered from your long train journey? I hope you slept well. I never could sleep on trains, no matter how comfortable they tried to make them.’
‘I’m very well, Father,’ Guy said. ‘It’s you we have to worry about.’
‘Oh, I’ll be all right before too long. Just as soon as this leg begins to mend.’
He began then to ask about things in Redbury, at the newspaper offices and at the house. How were the horses? How was the new groom getting on? Guy gave him answers where he could, but it was clear that his father found it difficult to concentrate. After a time, the nursing Sister came in and gave the patient a little more medicine against the ever-present pain. A little while after that he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
All through that day when visiting hours permitted, Guy and his mother were in and out of the room. When they were hungry or thirsty they went to the small
caffè
in the piazza where they drank tea or coffee and picked at salads and sandwiches. For Mr Anderson, a little food was brought in from a nearby restaurant in the hopes of
tempting him, but he had no appetite and pushed the food away.
Guy and his mother were at the hospital well before ten the following morning, and anxious for the meeting with the physician. Sitting on hard benches in the vestibule, they expected Dr MacElroy to enter from the street, but instead he came down the stone stairs towards them, his hand outstretched. After shaking Mrs Anderson’s hand he was introduced to Guy. Then, the polite greetings over, he said:
‘I had to see you today, Mrs Anderson. It was vital.’ The man’s Scottish accent was subdued; only the faintest burr revealing his origins.
Guy searched the man’s face, trying to read his expression, and in it saw the gravity of the situation.
‘Things have not gone well,’ Dr MacElroy went on. ‘In fact –’ He came to a stop, as if uncertain how to go on.
Mrs Anderson said quickly, ‘Please – tell me.’
‘Well . . .’ he shook his head, ‘it’s as I feared. The right leg – it’s not healing as I’d hoped, and I’m most terribly sorry to have to tell you, but mortification has now set in.’
Mrs Anderson put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear God.’
‘Yes,’ the man said, ‘the situation is very grave. I’m afraid there’s no cure when that happens. The only thing to be done is to – well, to cut away the gangrenous flesh. So I’m afraid it means amputation of the right leg. With luck the cut can be just below the knee, but I’m by no means certain of that. With your permission I’d like to call in another opinion.’
‘Whatever is necessary.’
‘I’d like to call in Signor Martinelli. Do you know of him?’
‘No, but –’
‘He’s a much respected surgeon – and I’ve sent word to have him come along for a consultation later this morning. I assume you’ll have no objection.’
‘Of course not. We want you to do everything you can.’
He nodded. ‘And of course we must act without delay. I think we should operate this afternoon, or this evening at the latest. Time is of the essence if the poison is not to spread too far.’
The doctor then said that he would be in touch later, and that in the meantime Mr Anderson was to eat nothing, and might drink only water.
When the doctor had gone, Guy turned to his mother and said: ‘You go on upstairs and see Father – I’ll come up in a few minutes. You need some time together.’
Mrs Anderson went up to her husband’s room, and Guy gave a nod to the nun who had come to sit at her desk, and turned and went out into the square. Two minutes later he was in the
caffè
. He sat there over a cup of coffee for fifteen minutes, doing nothing but gaze idly from the window at the pedestrians and carriages moving by, then he pushed aside his half-empty cup and saucer, paid his bill and left.
In the hospital, up on the first floor, he knocked on the door of his father’s room, heard his mother’s ‘Come in,’ entered, and the moment he stepped across the threshold he became aware of a difference. There was a slight, sweetish smell in the room. He had never come across it before in his life, but he knew at once what it was. It was the smell of dying flesh. He looked at his mother as she sat on the left side of his father’s bed and saw in her widened eyes that she was aware of what he was experiencing.
‘Hello, Father.’ Guy went to the right side of the bed, where a chair had been placed. His father lay half propped up against the pillows, the cage beneath the bedcovers making a rounded shape over his legs. ‘How are you feeling today?’ Guy asked. Holding his father’s hand, he sat down. Seeing his father lying there so helpless, and knowing what was now ahead, it was all he could do to keep the tears from his eyes and speak over the lump in his throat.
‘Well, I must confess I’ve been better, my son,’ Mr Anderson said, ‘and God willing, I shall feel better again.’ He paused. ‘You know what they’re doing to me later on today, of course.’
His voice did not have its usual strength, and the sound of it, halting and laboured, touched Guy’s heart so that for a moment he felt he could not speak. Then he said, ‘Oh, Father, I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes. I don’t mind telling you I’m dreading it. Still,’ Mr Anderson shrugged, ‘there’s nothing to do but put up with it.’ He withdrew his hand and raised it, half turning to his wife. ‘Anne . . . If you wouldn’t mind – just for a few minutes.’
Mrs Anderson got to her feet. To Guy she said, ‘I’m going downstairs for a little while. Your father wants to have a word with you.’ Picking up her bag, she moved across the room. In the doorway she turned and added, speaking to her husband, ‘Don’t talk too much and tire yourself.’
Guy and his father watched as the door closed behind her, and heard her footsteps fade away on the stone floor of the corridor outside. Then Mr Anderson turned to his son.
‘I wanted to talk to you, Guy, and there won’t be much of an opportunity before they operate, apart from now.’
‘Is it absolutely certain they’re going to?’ Guy asked.
‘Oh, yes. There’s no question of it. My sense of smell is still working all right. My leg is dying on me, it’s as simple as that – and I don’t think the left one is doing so well either. Anyway,’ he said on a sigh, ‘it won’t do any good to dwell on that.’
Guy said nothing, but sat with his hands clasped.
‘I want you to listen to me, Guy,’ the old man said. ‘I don’t want to have to repeat things. Quite honestly I haven’t got the strength.’
Guy nodded. ‘I understand. What is it you want to tell me?’
Mr Anderson hesitated for a second, then said. ‘I’m not being melodramatic here, but we have to face the possibility that I won’t make it through the operation.’
‘Oh, but, Father –’
‘No, please, Guy, we’ve got to be realistic about this. With the best doctors in the world there’s always the chance that things won’t turn out the way you hope. This is why I need to talk to you now.’ He half turned his head to where on a side table stood a glass and pitcher. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘could I have a drink?’
Guy poured water into the glass and gave it to him.
‘Thank you.’ The man sipped, and held the glass out to Guy who replaced it on the table. A moment of silence passed, then Mr Anderson took a breath and went on: ‘Now, then – in the event that I should – that things don’t go according to plan . . .’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Oh, let’s not beat about the bush here. In the event that I don’t survive the operation there will be certain things you’ll have to do.’
Guy wanted to burst out in protest, but did not; he merely nodded, swallowed, and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Well, the business matters first. Get them out of the way. First of all, about the business here:
Angellini
. As you know, we came out here to sell it up, and that’s what I was in the process of doing when I had the accident. It was all going so well too. The textiles business is booming right now, and I knew we wouldn’t have any trouble in selling it on. That’s helped enormously – the success of the company. Of course it has. We’re selling a thriving one, not one that’s on its last legs. Anyway –’ he waved a frail-looking hand, ‘the sale should all go ahead as planned. Most of the work on it is done, but it’ll need a careful eye and a careful hand until everything is signed and settled. You’re my heir, of course, and along with your mother you’ll be running everything, but I don’t want things left to her. She’s not young any more
and she’s had enough responsibility in her life – and if I go I doubt she’ll have the heart to do much in the way of work. Which is why I have to turn to you. I’m afraid most of it is going to fall on your shoulders, son, and it’s a lot for a young man of only twenty-five.’
He came to a halt here, as if waiting to let his words sink in. Then after a moment he went on, ‘Back home, the paper should present you with no difficulties if you use your head, and use the heads of those around you. I’m sure you’re well aware that my manager, Godfrey Chemmin, is worth his weight in gold. If there’s anything you want, or need to know, then he’s the man to go to. He knows almost as much about the business as I do myself. Anyway, since you got out of the army you’ve had a bit of a taste of life on the paper, so all of that won’t come as a complete surprise to you. Responsibility doesn’t come easily to everyone,’ he added after a moment. ‘Especially someone like you, having spent most of your adult life in the army.’
‘I did have certain responsibilities, sir,’ Guy said.
‘Yes, I know you did, but they’re not the same. I don’t think so, anyway. In the British army, all things being equal, you’re always going to be fed and clothed and sheltered and paid, but I’m afraid that’s not always the case in the world of business. It’s a dog-eat-dog affair, and no mistake. You have to look after your own, for others will not.’ He fell silent for a few moments then went on, ‘I always asked myself why you went off to join the army in the first place. You knew how much I wanted you to stay at home. I wanted you to learn about the newspaper and the business out here in Florence, but no, you didn’t want to settle. You didn’t want to stay at home and knuckle down like that.’ He shook his head and briefly closed his eyes, as if in a gesture of relief. ‘Oh, you can’t imagine how I felt when you said you were resigning your commission and
coming home to work with me. Your mother, too. My God, she was so pleased. So relieved.’