Villa San Vito
Positano
Dear Santina,
Ahead of your imminent preparations to leave our family, I felt it only proper to express our deepest gratitude. If I were to do this in person, I have no doubt that your face would crease into the embarrassment I have come to see all too often, especially during my intensive approach to teaching. I put you very much on the spot, and I know this. But I did it for good reason.
When you arrive on those new shores there will be scores of people hoping to catch the same dreams as you. No one will care too much about who you are or want to be. You will have to prove yourself. The reserves of inner strength and determination I have observed in you over the past few months reassures me you will find your place wherever you decide to settle.
Furthermore, I have come to understand over the past difficult year what Wordsworth described as ‘The Child is father of the Man’. Elizabeth has taught me more than I care to admit. Her birth heralded the start of the hardest year of our lives. My darling wife is a shadow of the woman I married. Her recovery is slower than I hoped. Yet in spite of this, Elizabeth is a sunbeam. And this is all down to you.
I knew you were a special young woman the moment I met you that afternoon in London, the way your eyes lit up with an insatiable curiosity, something so similar to my own. What I couldn’t have known is how you would shower my daughter with a care that only a mother can give. I can offer her a fraction of what you can, or indeed what Adeline may, one day, if ever. Only time will tell.
I have decided the best course of action is to send Elizabeth to boarding school after she turns five. To send her before then seems brutal somehow, though in all likelihood it probably would be the best thing for her. I want to keep her with us until she reaches the age where her mother’s condition might start to weigh upon her in any way.
If there was any part of you that might even for a moment consider remaining here as her caregiver until she returns to Great Britain, I would do everything in my power to make it worthwhile. It goes without saying that I would offer you a reasonable raise in wages, and, I think only fair, one day off a week where I can schedule additional help.
If you have reached this part of the letter and have understood everything, I congratulate you on all the hard work you have invested in learning this new language. I hope, one day, I might be able to speak Italian as well as you do English. I gave up hope of cooking linguini with fresh clams and garlic as well as you do long ago. Perhaps you might teach me before you leave? In Italian of course.
Whatever your decision I will honor it. The choice is entirely yours. I hope the sun has set by the time you read this. In my experience, sleeping upon a decision delivers the truest answer.
Sincerely yours,
Henry Crabtree
I let the letter fall to my lap. The sky was onyx. The air was still. I could hear the faint sound of the sea beckoning to the shore. Which way was the tide pulling?
The next morning the clouds darkened. Claps of thunder shook the house. The sea churned grey, and the whole of Positano retreated into their homes whilst the rain lashed the narrow alleys into scurries of water chasing over the cobbles down to the sea. The Major watched, sat at the table on the terrace outside the kitchen. As the wind whipped and flashes of light blanched the leaden sky, he sat in perfect stillness, the eye of the storm.
I should have liked to imitate his poise. My thoughts raced, clanging against one another like the copper pans I hung back on the wall in a vain attempt to coerce clear thinking. There was another fury of thunder. Elizabeth ran under the table and burst into tears. I threw the tea towel I used to dry the pans over my shoulder and crouched down till my face was level with hers. Her cheeks were crimson with terror. Tears streaked the sides of her face. I took her hand in mine. I tried to sit with her terror rather than brush it away. The latter approach I had found to be a pointless task, serving only to fill me with the same frustration as her own, which did nothing to expel it, and more often than not exacerbated it. I smoothed the back of her hand with my thumb and kissed her forehead. For a flicker I considered how liberating it was to be a child and let each of these emotions ripple through without boundary. Perhaps she was crying for my benefit? She shed the tears of confusion and fear I couldn’t. What would happen, if, for a moment, I surrendered to the conflicting emotions swirling inside me? Would it be so very disastrous? What if I acknowledged, with unabridged simplicity, that the idea of sailing away to a place where I knew no one, and nothing of the English spoken upon the American streets, abandoning my friends and Marco, filled me with palpable sadness?
I had been running all my life. My earliest memories were chasing behind my mother in search of something, food to sell, riches to dig up, laundry to deliver. We ran from my suffocating father and the dread of hunger. After my mother died I ran away from the memory of her.
As the shutters clattered against the wind, I wrapped Elizabeth in my arms and allowed my American daydream to ebb. I wanted to feel comforted by the realization that it was nothing but that – an ephemeral wish, another wisp of a life. Yet it smarted. It was so much easier to chase. Perhaps that way I might never get what I wanted and risk the chance of losing it?
I watched the Major take another sip of his tea, thin ribbons of steam lifting up into the furious air beyond the balustrade. Elizabeth grew heavy in my arms, her breath slowed. I didn’t realize I’d been rocking, soothing the both of us. She had fallen asleep. I walked through the dining room and up the stairwell to lay her down in the bed I still kept close to mine.
As I retraced my steps back to the kitchen, a draught curled up behind me. I knew I’d shut all the windows at the first darkening promise of a storm. I checked the Major’s – they were still closed.
I knocked on Adeline’s door. No answer. My stomach tightened. I hoped she was sleeping. I creaked the door open a little. The damp air blew on my face. The tall shutter door swung against the frame in the draught. Upon the roofless terrace stood Adeline. Her arms were outstretched. Rain pelted down her nightdress. Hair clung to her scalp, matted to the back of it. I fought the instinct to rush to her. I knew from experience that it would jar her into defensiveness, if not aggression. I ought to call the Major, but something stopped me. He seemed so peaceful down below on the kitchen terrace. This time I could handle Adeline. I stepped inside the room.
Perhaps I envied her abandon. She never did anything without entire commitment, to the detriment of herself. And yet, watching this woman, making tiny steps toward healing, standing fearless in the storm, filled me with an awkward admiration. All until I snapped back into myself and ran to gather towels so she might not catch her death. I stood in the doorway to the terrace, holding them. The water cut across the space between us, diagonal flights of tiny arrows.
‘Signora Adeline!’ I called out.
She turned toward me. Her face spread into a warm smile.
‘Please, come inside!’
I reached out a hand. She placed hers in mine. Her fingers were strong, still callused from her work. I didn’t want to pull her, but my forearm was already drenched. I began to regret my decision to take on the challenge of bringing her inside. Her grip tightened. She pulled. I took a step outside.
‘Come,’ she beckoned.
I
