Page 49 of Never Tear Us Apart
Eugenie is not keen on the way I rock her. She is gulping air in preparation to caterwaul, so I scoop her out of the pram and pull a face at her, a trick I learnt from my mum, who never met a baby she couldn’t charm. The baby’s plumpmouth falls open, and she stares at me as if I am crazy, but at least the great lump forgets to cry. When I blow a raspberry, she even smiles.
‘She likes you, see?’ the boy says. ‘We are all friends.’
‘We are, Qalbi.’
He hoots with delighted laughter.
The doctor glances at her watch and sighs. Gesturing to me with one hand to pass her the baby, she unbuttons the front of her dress with the other. With one swift movement, she latches Eugenie onto her breast, and the baby begins to feed as her mother stands in the heat. Vittoria produces a shawl from the bag and drapes it over the baby’s head, covering any vestige of bare bosom.
The baby is heavy, the air is scalding, and yet the doctor stands unflinching, feeding her child. Perhaps people skills aren’t top of her list, but she is an impressive woman.
‘The bus.’ Vittoria points to the battered vehicle as it rattles and shakes to a juddering stop.
‘Vittoria, the pram please.’ The doctor gets on the bus, her baby at her breast. The little boy tugs at my arm to follow him.
‘You get on with your mummy,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll help Vittoria.’
Everyone streams past us to get onto the bus. Vittoria and I are last, but we’re just about able to jam the pram beside the driver and find space to stand between the seats.
‘You can always come to me,’ I tell the girl suddenly. ‘If you need someone to talk to, a friend or help, come to me.’
The smile that she gives me in return is so radiant, it breaks my heart. ‘You are a friend,’ she says happily. ‘A good friend. I am lucky.’
Her definition of luck and mine are completely different.
Chapter Thirty-Three
No one even tries talking over the rattle of the bus’s engine or the clatter of its suspension against the potholed road. Then someone by the window gasps, and suddenly four or five people are leaning forwards, craning to try to see something. When the other half of the bus shift towards whatever they are looking at, the bus lurches, tips and crunches to a halt. Vittoria and I force the pram back out onto the road so that everyone can get off. Standing side by side, we shade our eyes and squint into the sun.
Then I see it: a small plane is half-flying, half-falling downwards, smoke trailing from its engine, and it seems to stop and start in mid-air.
‘British!’ someone cries as the aircraft rises and falls as if buffeted by invisible forces. ‘Spitfire! Must be on patrol. Something’s gone wrong.’
The aircraft descends further, gathering pace as it hurtles towards us.
‘He has not ejected – he will die,’ another cries.
‘Why doesn’t he eject?’
‘Must be trapped . . . a malfunction.’
‘No hope of landing safely,’ says another. ‘It will crash. He will die.’
Scanning the surroundings, I realise they are right. The terraced fields around us are long but narrow and edged with low stone walls. The chances of putting anything down safely on the uneven terrain at that speed must be negligible.
‘Oh, God,’ I whisper.
I want to look away, but as with everyone else in the road, my eyes are glued to the Spitfire as it looms ever bigger in the sky. In a few heartbeats, I can see the markings on the underside of its wings and the outline of the pilot. Perhaps he is already unconscious. I hope he’s already unconscious.
Then it lurches down into the field next to the road. One wing dips so low it ploughs a furrow in the dry soil, sending rocks and earth exploding into the air. Somehow, the impact seems to right the dangerously listing aircraft just as it contacts the ground. There’s a sickening crunch as metal folds and falls apart.
Smoke billows out of its engines as it skids the length of the field on its belly. Any second now, the nose of the plane will smash into the stone wall.
As one, we all clamber over into the field, racing towards where the impact will be Only Vittoria stays behind with the children.
Then, at the very last second, the Spitfire’s tail slides to the left, slowing its speed and bringing it horizontal to the wall. It slams against the stone, finally breaking its speed and comes to a juddering stop.
For a moment, everything is still and silent. Then a fire blossoms into life in the aircraft’s nose.
