Last Train from Liguria (2010) Read Online Free

itinerary and a bunch of numbered envelopes; besides, if the Signora was staying at the Savoy, why go to this trouble, why not simply arrange an interview to give the instructions in person? It wasn’t as if the Savoy was a million miles from Chelsea. And it would have broken the ice; after all, they would be living under the same roof in less than a month, and surely the Signora must have some curiosity about her son’s future governess. Or nanny, or teacher, or companion or whoever it was she was soon expected to be?
    The delivery boy, done up like a doll in Savoy livery, had shuffled on the doorstep while he waited for her to sign the receipt. Sniffing about inside his head, no doubt, for something to say that would take them both up to, and safely past, the moment that would decide his tip. Bella had been expecting the weather, the traffic, a newspaper scandal half-read or overheard. In the end he surprised her by blurting out, ‘She made that many mistakes!’
    ‘Who did?’
    ”Er…” He nodded at the parcel in Bella’s hands. ‘Wastepaper basket full up to…” The boy lifted his hand to his forehead as if he were the basket in question. ‘Twice she sends for me to get more paper, I-mean-to-say-stationery. Twice. But when I come back like she says in an hour, all’s right and ready to go.’
    ‘Oh well, perhaps her English is not quite?’
    ‘A fusspot is all.’
    Bella groped through the coins in her purse. ‘How long has Signora Lami been at the Savoy?’
    ‘Fortnight, miss.’
    ‘That long?’
    ‘Leaves tomorrow, she does, miss.’
    ‘Tomorrow - are you sure?’
    ‘Oh yes, miss. For Sicily.’
    She could see the boy liked the word Sicily, turning it over in his mouth, playing it between his small grey teeth.
    ‘Where did you say?’
    ‘Siss-a-lee.’
    ‘I should send a reply.’
    ‘No! She don’t want none. Look it says so. There.’ He pointed to the top of the receipt. ‘Ree-ply. Not. Ree-quired.’
    She had stood at the door for a moment, watching the doll-boy walk down to the gate where his little leg cocked over his bicycle. Within a few seconds he was at the end of the road, the bicycle plunging out onto the main road alongside a double-decker bus. She should have made more use of him. Another sixpence might have bought her a few extra brushstrokes. A shilling, a portrait, fully framed. How old was the Signora, for example? How fluent was her English? Was she calm, nervous, pretty, plain? Had there been a child with her? A husband? Did she have any callers? Had she dined in or out? And was it a suite or a bedroom where she had brimmed up the basket with her many mistakes?
    Later, in her bedroom, Bella had spread the documents across the bed. First glance and she could already tell they would tolerate no deviation, and as for any untoward acts of initiative - well, she could put such nonsense straight out of her head. These weren’t directions, these were
orders
and were even laid out on paper that looked like legal parchment. She read them again: ‘Sit away from the window in this train. Stay in your cabin on that ship. Drink nothing that hasn’t come from the hand of a waiter. Lock your door after dinner. In the street in Genoa neither look at nor speak to anyone - not even a priest.’
    Really! It was as if she were a child or an imbecile. Nothing was permitted without the say-so of Signora Lami, from where, when and what she should eat, to the amount each porter should be tipped (a lesser amount the further she got from England, as it so happened). In fact, the only thing the Signora had omitted was a lavatory timetable.
    Bella had picked up the bunch of envelopes. Each one numbered, dated and labelled with a more concise version of the instructions on the parchment. Inside was an appropriate amount of money to cover every situation from overnight hotels to taxicab fares. One envelope was stamped with the Thomas Cook logo. Bella had slit it open and looked inside. First-class