was no one’s savior.
I was the help.
A month or two of going beyond my remit of service would not make me part of their family. And yet, if I could keep my head down for another year then true freedom would be mine. Giving a little more of myself to this tiny child would be a small sacrifice for what I would receive in return. I could survive one more year of gazing into those tiny eyes, each day opening wider, each day seeing the world smudge toward focus. Would I deny myself that unquestioning delight as when our eyes locked for the first time? For the mere second or two whilst it lasted, she saw me. Not Santina Guida, the help. Not someone’s abandoned daughter. The flicker of infinity that sparkled there moved me. A bright silence ignited that fleeting but unflinching gaze, a promise of renewal – where one dream dies, another, by necessity, is born.
What was a year in Positano compared to a lifetime in the New World?
On 2 October 1957 I accompanied the Crabtrees upon the Blue Star Line ship on a return to the Bay of Naples. I was a month shy of my twentieth birthday. The crystalline turquoise of my coast was not the salve I longed for after the relentless sea voyage. The water drew me back to the place I’d fought to escape for so much of my life; I was a hapless swimmer defeated by the undertow.
The Major and I had shared pitiful snatched sleep between us. Adeline received tranquilizing medication throughout the crossing from southern France, administered with precision by the Major, which, to our relief, appeared to have more effect than in London. It kept her frenetic outbursts at bay and dipped her into the waking sleep to which she had become accustomed. At least in this state the Major was able to keep her relaxed, or some appearance of such. He even managed to bring her out onto deck a couple of times for fresh air, though it wasn’t long before the amount of people unsettled her, and the Major was quick to retire back to their cabin before the situation grew out of hand.
My job was to stay with Elizabeth at all times. It would be an understatement to say I was nervous at the prospect. I had no experience of looking after a small child, let alone at sea, where the unpredictability of travel felt all the more dangerous. I tried to reassure myself that there were always doctors on board, and, most likely, experienced mothers who might help should I need it. I worked myself into such a silent state of panic that when Elizabeth was relaxed and slept the best she had since birth, it came as a great wave of relief. She adored the fresh air on deck, the hundreds of strange faces. Her tiny head twisted this way and that, trying to gather the details of everything around her, the different smells, sounds, and the musical soup of languages.
Some people passed me and flashed sympathetic smiles, thinking I was her mother perhaps. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to feeling a prickle of pride as they did so. And though she was not my own, each time I lifted her close to me, and described in detail all the things around us, the girl became ever more a part of me, in spite of the sting of defeat that curdled in my stomach as we approached land.
The Blue Star Line ship eased into the wide bay. Shipping offices crowded the port. From the deck on this bright day I could see far into the bustling city, a mystical warren that was still a foreign land to me, and to the right, rising ancient and proud, the purple silhouette of Vesuvius. The wind caught the new tufts of Elizabeth’s strawberry blonde hair, her eyes blinked away the tears left by the sea breeze. My eyes glistened too as I pretended I didn’t feel like I was sinking back into my old life, retreating toward a familiar town at once unknown. Positano with an unpredictable Adeline would not be the town I left. Working for a family that might terminate my contract sooner than planned, like Mr Benn and Mr George had, would leave me more vulnerable than when I’d first fled. I wiped away my tears and with it smudged my roiling thoughts into silence.
The Major helped Adeline down the gangway, a patient arm hooked around hers, following her tentative lead. If she began to tense, he would stop, take her hand in his and kiss it gently, murmuring something in her ear that always seemed to soothe. I thought about all those nights I’d heard him with her. Once, I had been feeding Elizabeth in the nursery, and could hear him read poetry to Adeline until she relinquished to sleep. Those nights it seemed that his care was having great effect, for a day or two afterwards she would show small flickers of her old self, but then night would fall and the wakings and railings would flare up again. The doctors had repeated their insistent requests to place Adeline in an institution, to reinstate shock therapy, to treat her psychotic episode with the internment it required. He would hear none of it. One doctor had even suggested that the Major put up Elizabeth for adoption in the circumstances. That night I had seen the extent of the Major’s temper. I hoped I never would again.
All the images of the past fitful months floated into my periphery with each step along the sun-dipped gangway. After we shuffled through customs with the throng we were at long last welcomed by our taxi. The Major insisted I sit in the front seat with Elizabeth so that he could stay beside Adeline in the back. I saw her turn to him. A whisper of a smile skimmed her lips. His hand squeezed hers a little tighter.
Our road snaked through the cacophony of the port, the sea of visitors embarking on their voyages. We were at a convergence of conflicting shoals swimming toward new lives, some fleeing, others, like me, returning. How many of them felt like their homeland was a strange new world? Little by little the crowds gave way to the hills I hadn’t admitted I’d missed. We climbed toward the southern tip, curving in and out of the landscape till Sorrento opened up below us, clusters of pink, pale yellow and spring blue homes rising from the grey stony cliffs, the Tyrrhenian turquoise limpid in the fattening midday sun.
Onward we drove, a sleepy Elizabeth lulled into dreams by the engine, as we began the climb toward the narrowing coastal road. The vineyards plump with purple fruit crawled up and down the hillsides beside us, the lemon trees stretched out their branches to the sun, each fruit a burst of yellow in the golden light. Another sharp turn and the coast opened up to us, defiant rocks to our left rising from deep in the cerulean water beneath. The view of my mountains unfolded like a concertina picture book with each new bend, till the entire range was in view, each further grand cliff edge painted a lighter shade of grey in the blanching sun, and beside it a mineral-green sea. Here we were circling its edge, tiny people in a metal box, carving through, inconsequential, at its mercy. My home hadn’t missed me.
The driver took a final bend. The cluster of Positano revealed itself. The houses were more colorful than I had remembered, clutching the cliff face like a scatter of shells left by the lingua di mare as we called it, the tongue of the sea, which sometimes even reached the stradone, our main street, especially during the winter storms. My mind raced up my hills: perhaps my brother was somewhere amongst them still? Perhaps returning offered me more than the failure of my new life? Perhaps recoiling into this past was a chance to find some peace within it?
The car pulled to a standstill at the foot of the Via Guglielmo Marconi. The ascent to our new home would be on foot up the staggered steps and narrow walkways. Several porters poised at the start of the stairs, two of them with donkeys saddled with empty baskets ready to carry our luggage. When Adeline saw the animals she reached out her hand, but the Major slipped his in hers before she could touch any of them. We climbed, silenced by our weariness and anticipation. The Major’s steps were assured. It felt like he had been living here some time already.
The alley narrowed, and a tired Elizabeth began a hungry rouse. We passed on behind several large villas, bougainvillea trailing down toward the cobbles, a smattering of twisted paper garlands of purple and fuchsia meeting the sandy stone below, snaking succulents twisting along the boundary garden walls toward the light, gnarled wisteria branches creeping along the backs of the houses. The dusty air was toasted from the warmth of the day, stony and infused with the whisper of drying pine. The alley dipped now and passed under an archway, curved round toward more steps and a second relentless incline. Our footsteps
