CHAPTER FORTY
HUGO
Early 1945
Hugo opened his eyes to a soft touch on his cheek. A young woman with dark hair and a sweet face was standing over him.
“Sofia?” he whispered.
“My name is Anna,” she said in English. “You are awake at last. That is good news.”
“Where am I?” He took in the white ceiling and the white curtains around his bed.
“You are in a hospital near Rome.”
“How did I get here?”
“You’re a lucky man. You were found when the Americans advanced toward Florence. God knows how long you’d been there. They almost gave you up for dead, but then they felt a heartbeat and rushed you back to a field hospital. They transferred you here after a few days when you’d been stabilised. You’ve been in a coma for a couple of weeks. Head injury, collapsed lung, and a real mess of a leg. Yes, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive.”
He tried to move and found that he couldn’t. “I need someone to write letters for me.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “All in good time.”
“Have the Allies taken the area north of Lucca now, do you know?”
“I really don’t know exactly how far they’ve reached. All I know is we are advancing steadily and the Germans are retreating as fast as they can. But I believe they haven’t quite been driven out of that area in the mountains yet. There’s still a lot of snow.”
“I need to find out about the village of San Salvatore,” he said. “I need to know if they are safe.”
“I’ll ask for you.” She gave him a smile. “Now rest and I’ll see if you are allowed a drink.”
“Whisky and soda,” he said.
She laughed. “You’ll be lucky.”
Later she returned. “The village you asked about is still in territory that is being fought over. It’s close to the Germans’ fortified line.”
“So I couldn’t get a message there yet?”
“I’m afraid not. But everyone is optimistic that we are nearing the end, in Italy at least. And with any luck you could be going home if you continue to make progress. How about that, eh?”
He tried to smile.
The next day an American army surgeon came to see him. “I’ve patched you up to the best of my ability,” he said, “but that leg of yours is a nasty mess. I gather it is an old wound that has healed badly. You’ll need to have it cleaned out of pieces of bone and reset. I imagine they’ll want to do that at an English hospital and not try to do anything here. So it will be a question of waiting until there is a ship that can take you.”
Every day he felt a little stronger. He was allowed to sit up, to walk with crutches. He wrote a letter home to his father, wife, and son. Daily he asked for news on the fighting at the front and whether the area north of Lucca was now in Allied hands, but the answers were always uncertain. He longed to write to Sofia but didn’t dare risk it. If there was still a German presence in her area and she received a letter from an English pilot, it could be a death sentence.
And so he waited impatiently for something to happen. In the middle of February he was taken to Civitavecchia harbour and on to an English ship bound for Portsmouth. The journey was a long and tedious one, dodging enemy ships and then battling gales in the Bay of Biscay. He was taken straight to hospital in Portsmouth where his leg was operated on. Again he wrote to his father and wife. And at the beginning of March he received an answer, but not from his family.
Dear Mr. Hugo,
I have taken the liberty of writing to you as there is not a family member at Langley at the moment to answer your letter.
May I say that I am so glad and relieved that you are safely back in England and not in some foreign hospital. I wanted you to be stronger and on the road to recovery before I shared the news with you. Your father died two months ago. His chest became progressively worse, and during the brutal cold in early January he caught pneumonia. I think the worry about having you reported missing contributed to his death. I am sorry he never lived to know that you were safe and coming home. So you are now officially Sir Hugo Langley, although I don’t suppose that brings you any comfort.
There is talk that the army regiment may be pulling out of Langley Hall at last. Thank God for that, although I fear they have made an awful mess of the place. It really does seem as though the war will soon be over. It hardly seems possible, does it, after so many years of hardship and worry?
I am going to see if you are allowed visitors, and if so may I take the liberty of coming to visit you? They are not restricting travel so much these days. I’ll bring you some good food. I expect you need building up after all that time hiding out with nothing to eat. Cook has done wonders with our limited rations plus what the estate brings in, although I’d truly be glad to see the end of rabbit pies.
Well, I won’t tire you anymore, but hope to visit you soon.
Yours truly,
Elsie Williams, housekeeper
Hugo folded the letter, his head a jumble of thoughts. He smiled fondly at memories of Mrs. Williams. When he’d been growing up she’d been Elsie, a new housemaid, a cheeky young girl who was kind to him after his mother died. Then, years later, the old housekeeper had retired and Elsie had taken her place. Always kind and cheerful, that was how he remembered her. Such a contrast from Soames, the butler—stiff, rigid, and humourless.
Then his thoughts turned to his father, and he wondered whether he felt any grief. His death was not unexpected after all, and his father had always been a remote sort of man, shying away from affection or any sort of closeness. Duty, honour, doing the right thing—they were what mattered to his father. And now he was gone. Hugo tried to picture himself as lord of the manor. Sir Hugo Langley. It seemed highly improbable. How Sofia would laugh, he thought. If only . . .
Elsie Williams came to see him a few days later. She still looked plump and cheerful, fresh-faced and young-looking for her age, as if the war had not affected her at all. She brought a hamper packed with good things: calf’s foot jelly, a game pie, homemade elderberry wine, and a jar of strawberry jam from last summer’s crop. She laughed when she held up this treasure. “We all saved our sugar rations for a month to make that,” she said. “My, did we have a bumper harvest last year. I helped Cook to hull all those strawberries. I’ve been helping her quite a lot recently since we’ve no kitchen maid. I never realised how much I enjoy cooking.”
“It’s very good of you, Elsie,” he said. “Although I must apologise. I should be calling you Mrs. Williams.”
“Only if you want me to call you Sir Hugo,” she replied. Then her face became sombre. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news about your father. In truth he had been going downhill for the past few years. And having his house occupied by a lot of louts really grieved him, too.”
“A lot of louts?”
“That army regiment. You should see what a mess they’ve made of the place. I think it almost broke your father’s heart. You know how proud he was of the house and the grounds.”
Hugo realised there was one subject they hadn’t broached. “And my wife and son? You haven’t even mentioned them.”
“That’s because they’ve been gone from the house for a while,” she said.
“Gone? Where?”
“I couldn’t tell you, sir. I know she has left you a letter, but I didn’t think it was my place to open it. She told your father she was going away, but he never told me where. Maybe she was nervous being close to the south coast when those doodlebugs and V-2s started coming over. She never looked happy and it was hard to please her.”
“And my son? Is he away at school?”
“No, sir. He was attending the village school until recently. Your father was most put out. He wanted Teddy to go to the same school that you were sent to, but Mrs. Langley wouldn’t hear of it. She said she’d been doing without a husband, she wasn’t going to do without a son as well.”
“I can understand that,” he said. “Oh well, when I finally get home I expect it will all be sorted out. And when the war ends, we can choose a school for Teddy then.”
“You really think it’s going to end soon?”
“I’m sure of it,” he said. “The Germans are retreating all over Europe. We’ve got them licked, Elsie. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Praise the Lord for that,” she said, “and for bringing you safely home. I was so worried about you, Mr. Hugo. When we got the telegram that you were missing, well, we feared the worst. And what good news when you finally wrote that you were alive.”
“Only just,” he said. “I was extremely lucky. That the American troops found my body in the midst of a German convoy and, what’s more, discovered that I was still alive—well, that was nothing short of a miracle.”
“You must have had an angel watching over you,” she said. And Hugo’s hand went instinctively to where his breast pocket would be.
He was allowed home in April. The banks were covered in primroses. There were daffodils and crocuses blooming in cottage gardens, and the fruit trees were a mass of pink and white blossoms. As the taxi drove up the drive to Langley Hall he saw what Elsie had meant about the place being destroyed by louts. Heavy army vehicles were parked all over the south lawn, their tyres leaving deep gouges in what had once been immaculate grass. The north lawn had been ploughed up and was now growing vegetables. The house looked in need of a coat of paint, and some of the windows were boarded up with plywood. He got out of the taxi and went up the steps to the front door. Immediately a sentry stepped out to intercept him.
“Oy, where do you think you’re going?” he demanded.
“Where am I going?” Hugo regarded him with distaste. “I am Sir Hugo Langley and this is my house.”
“Not this part of it, mate,” the man said. “Right now this is the property of His Majesty’s government and the East Sussex regiment. Your bit is the wing over there.”
Hugo swallowed back his anger. “I thought you were supposed to be moving out.”
“We are. They were going to send us over to France, but it seems they don’t need us. Doing very nicely without us. So I reckon we’ll be going home soon.”
As Hugo went to walk away the man called, “So where have you been? Having a good time on the Riviera?”
“Flying bombing raids. In Malta since 1941, then in Italy, then in hospital for three months while they rebuilt my leg.”
The man stood to attention and saluted. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see the uniform. I didn’t realise.”
Hugo went around to the side of the house and in through what had once been a servant’s entrance. It felt wrong to be sneaking into his own home like this. He wandered around, recognising objects of furniture but experiencing a jolt of unreality that nothing was in its proper place and none of the rooms were familiar to him. On the table in what was now serving as a drawing room, he found the letter addressed to him.
Dear Hugo,
As I write this I don’t know whether you are alive or dead. They say you are missing. I have to think that means dead. I have stayed on here dutifully, but now I have to think about my own happiness and that of our son. I have met someone. He’s an American major. A wonderful person, likes to laugh and dance and makes me feel alive again. I am going to America with him as soon as they can find a place for me on a ship. I have instructed your solicitor to start divorce proceedings. I’ll happily admit to being the guilty party so there is no stain on you or your lofty family.
It never really worked, did it? I saw the fun, creative side of you when we were students together in Florence, but when we came back to England you tried to be your father—stuffy and boring and correct—and I never felt that I belonged at Langley. Not the sort of life I would have chosen. And poor little Teddy, so lonely and always teased by the village boys. I want a better life for him, too.
Please forgive me. I wish you all the best,
Brenda
Hugo stared at the letter for a long while. At first he felt indignation that his wife should betray him with an American. But then elation took over. If Sofia’s husband did not return he was free to marry her. As soon as the war ended and he was allowed to travel, he would go back to Italy and bring her home. He sat down immediately at the writing desk and wrote her a letter.