Dead And Alive by Hammond Innes

Author:Hammond Innes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-01-06T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

The French Girl

When the priest came out again he had on his wide-brimmed black hat. His quick scurrying walk, which scattered the children out of his path, made him look like a black beetle hurrying about its urgent affairs. ‘I will take you to see the grave of Maria Galliani,’ he said and bustled into the car. As we moved back down the hill to the village square he said, ‘Are you a Catholic?’ I shook my head.

His white hands fluttered in an expression of resignation. ‘I was thinking that you might have liked to give a candle for her. The English are always so generous.’ He shot me a quick glance and then sighed. ‘The little church where she is buried is very poor and much repair work had to be done after the battle by the bridge. But God was merciful. He damaged only His own house and left the village untouched.’

He directed the driver down through the village to the ford and the little church in the valley. We were met at the door by an old man with a grey beard and watery eyes. The priest motioned Boyd and myself inside. Like everything about the village the church was depressingly primitive. It was cool and almost damp inside and the peeling walls were festooned with tawdry gilt and white plaques to the dead of the village. On the wall opposite the door a life-size figure of Christ hung dejectedly from its cross. It was badly carved in wood and on a shelf at its feet stood jam jars of faded summer flowers. I don’t think I have ever seen such an ugly interior to a church. The villagers seemed to have vied with one another to hang upon its walls the most gaudy memorials possible within their means: even to little glass or cellophane cases filled with artificial lilies.

The priest had stopped by the door to talk to the old man. But now he came in and led us up to the altar. ‘These were carved by Maria Galliani,’ he said, pointing to a pair of candlesticks delicately worked in some local wood. On the base of each was carved the name of her husband - Emilio Galliani - and the sign of peace.

‘In the cemetery you can see the grave,’ the priest said, leading us out again into the bright sunlight. ‘She had not worked long with Guido Mancini, but he bought her a good headstone.’

By the great marble tomb of the Iori family, half-hidden by two black crosses that marked the graves of German soldiers killed in the fighting at the ford, was a sandstone boulder. On it was roughly carved - ‘Hic Jacet Maria Galliani, Requiescat in Pace.’ There were wild roses in a little sunken vase. ‘And now, what about the girl?’ I asked, as he showed no sign of moving. ‘The girl? Ah, yes - she is at Mancini’s farm. She is all right. But she will be up in the hills now, minding the goats.

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