Another Time, Another Place by Jessie Kesson

Author:Jessie Kesson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black & White Publishing
Published: 2017-05-16T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

‘What about the Italians’ milk?’ her man was asking. ‘Are you not taking it in to them then?’

‘In a minute. They can wait. Surely to God they can wait a minute!’

Her outburst was not against her man, taken unaware, but a protest against fear. A fear that was almost physical. Like a thin, yellow worm, beginning to crawl around inside her. Her own man, her own kitchen, had taken on a sudden safety that she felt reluctant to leave.

* * *

Luigi’s ‘off day’ had infected the bothy, as she knew it would.

‘Too much sick Luigi.’ Vehemence, rare in Paolo, took her by surprise, although not directed at herself but intended for Luigi. ‘Me sick,’ he claimed. ‘Umberto sick. Everybody sick. Me work. Umberto work. Sick similar.’

His resentment would never reach Luigi, would never penetrate. Despair had taken on the tangible form of a man lying face downwards on a bed, hidden by blankets.

‘Domani Luigi work. Domani Luigi joke. Plenty joke. Domani,’ Paolo informed Umberto as they went to the table. ‘Today. No joke. No work.’ Two prisoners sat down together at the table. They had eliminated the third.

A lack of mutual compassion was an aspect that was new to the young woman struggling to find words to overcome it. She knew them all right. Surely. Surely since you are all in the same boat. Surely . . .

But she hadn’t forgotten the Italian for that.

‘Domani. Luigi OK today. No like. Me no like. Umberto no like. Soffrire similar . . .’

Shoving his plate away from him, and clattering his knife and fork on the table, Paolo leapt to his feet, and retreated to his stool by the fire, cupping his down-bent head in his hands. ‘Me too. Me soffrire.’

‘Eat, Paolo.’ She tried to persuade him. ‘Mange. Eat, Paolo.’

Maybe, maybe compassion had another side to itself. Not just an understanding of suffering, but an involvement with it.

Luigi had gone beyond captivity. Umberto, eating calmly at the table, held himself aloof from it. There were only two prisoners in the bothy now.

But she wasn’t a prisoner, not a real one. All she had to do was just turn around and walk out. It was her legs that refused to take her to freedom. She needed the password for that. She hadn’t got it, but knew it was necessary. The knock on the bothy wall ended her search. ‘Husband,’ she said. ‘Married me. Knocking for me.’

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