never have put up with an injustice of that kind. The child remained silent, and soon Mr. Unwin found himself holding a hand he did not know what to do with. He read its lines, caked with dirt and marked clearly in an M-shape of blackness. “Where do you live?” he said, letting go. “You can’t wander around up here. Someone will tell the police.” He did not mean that he would.
“He is going back where he came from,” said Carmela. The child looked at her with such adult sadness, and she turned away so gravely as she dried the cup and put it on a shelf, that Mr. Unwin would tell his wife later, in Carmela’s hearing, “They were like lovers.”
“Give him something,” he said to Carmela, who replied that she would, without mentioning that the larder was padlocked; for surely he knew?
Carmela could understand English now, but nobody guessed that. When she heard the Unwins saying sometime after this that they wanted a stonemason because the zoning laws obliged them to grow a hedge or build a wall to replace the sagging wire that surrounded their garden, she kept still; and when they asked each other if it would be worthwhile speaking to Carmela, who might know of someone reliable and cheap, she wore the lightest, vaguest of looks on her face, which meant “No.” It was the Marchesa who had lodged a complaint about the Unwins’ wire. The unsightliness of it lowered the value of her own property. Mrs. Unwin promised her husband she would carry the bitterness of this to her grave.
The light that had sent the house ghosts to sleep brought Mrs. Unwin nothing but despair. She remained in her curtained bedroom and often forgoteven to count the change Carmela returned in the black purse. Dr. Chaffee, of the clinic down the hill, called to see Mrs. Unwin. He wanted to look at the children, too; their father had told him how Tessa and Clare were too lazy to walk. Dr. Chaffee was not Italian and not English. The English physician who had been so good with children and so tactful with their parents had gone away. He was afraid of war. Mrs. Unwin thought this was poor of him. Mussolini did not want war. Neither did Hitler, surely? What did Dr. Chaffee think? He had lived in Berlin.
“I think that you must not feel anxious about a situation you can’t change,” he said. He still wore the strange dark clothes that must have been proper in another climate.
“I do not feel anxious,” she said, her hands to her face.
Carmela parted the curtains a little so that the doctor could examine the twins by light of day. They were not lazy, he said. They had rickets. Carmela could have told him that. She also knew there was no cure for it.
Mrs. Unwin seemed offended. “Our English doctor called it softening of the bone.”
“They must have milk,” said Dr. Chaffee. “Not the skimmed stuff. Fresh fruit, cod-liver oil.” He wrote on a pad as he spoke. “And in August you must get them away from the coast.”
Mrs. Unwin’s hands slid forward until they covered her face. “I was too old,” she said. “I had no right to bring these maimed infants into the world.”
Dr. Chaffee did not seem to be alarmed at this. He drew Carmela near, saying, “What about this child? How old is she?”
Carmela remembered she knew no English; she looked dumbly from one to the other. Dr. Chaffee repeated the question in Italian, straight to Carmela, and calling her “little girl.”
“Nearly thirteen,” said Carmela.
“Good God, she looks nine.”
Mrs. Unwin’s hands parted. She wore the grimace that was one of her ways of smiling. “I am remiss about everything, then? I didn’t create her. Tell me how to make her look nearly thirteen.”
“Partly heredity,” he said.
They began to chat, and Mrs. Unwin to smile widely.
“I shall do whatever you say,” said Mrs. Unwin.
After the doctor had departed—Carmela saw him in his dark suit pausing to look at the datura tree—Mrs. Unwin sent for her again. “The doctorsays
“He is going back where he came from,” said Carmela. The child looked at her with such adult sadness, and she turned away so gravely as she dried the cup and put it on a shelf, that Mr. Unwin would tell his wife later, in Carmela’s hearing, “They were like lovers.”
“Give him something,” he said to Carmela, who replied that she would, without mentioning that the larder was padlocked; for surely he knew?
Carmela could understand English now, but nobody guessed that. When she heard the Unwins saying sometime after this that they wanted a stonemason because the zoning laws obliged them to grow a hedge or build a wall to replace the sagging wire that surrounded their garden, she kept still; and when they asked each other if it would be worthwhile speaking to Carmela, who might know of someone reliable and cheap, she wore the lightest, vaguest of looks on her face, which meant “No.” It was the Marchesa who had lodged a complaint about the Unwins’ wire. The unsightliness of it lowered the value of her own property. Mrs. Unwin promised her husband she would carry the bitterness of this to her grave.
The light that had sent the house ghosts to sleep brought Mrs. Unwin nothing but despair. She remained in her curtained bedroom and often forgoteven to count the change Carmela returned in the black purse. Dr. Chaffee, of the clinic down the hill, called to see Mrs. Unwin. He wanted to look at the children, too; their father had told him how Tessa and Clare were too lazy to walk. Dr. Chaffee was not Italian and not English. The English physician who had been so good with children and so tactful with their parents had gone away. He was afraid of war. Mrs. Unwin thought this was poor of him. Mussolini did not want war. Neither did Hitler, surely? What did Dr. Chaffee think? He had lived in Berlin.
“I think that you must not feel anxious about a situation you can’t change,” he said. He still wore the strange dark clothes that must have been proper in another climate.
“I do not feel anxious,” she said, her hands to her face.
Carmela parted the curtains a little so that the doctor could examine the twins by light of day. They were not lazy, he said. They had rickets. Carmela could have told him that. She also knew there was no cure for it.
Mrs. Unwin seemed offended. “Our English doctor called it softening of the bone.”
“They must have milk,” said Dr. Chaffee. “Not the skimmed stuff. Fresh fruit, cod-liver oil.” He wrote on a pad as he spoke. “And in August you must get them away from the coast.”
Mrs. Unwin’s hands slid forward until they covered her face. “I was too old,” she said. “I had no right to bring these maimed infants into the world.”
Dr. Chaffee did not seem to be alarmed at this. He drew Carmela near, saying, “What about this child? How old is she?”
Carmela remembered she knew no English; she looked dumbly from one to the other. Dr. Chaffee repeated the question in Italian, straight to Carmela, and calling her “little girl.”
“Nearly thirteen,” said Carmela.
“Good God, she looks nine.”
Mrs. Unwin’s hands parted. She wore the grimace that was one of her ways of smiling. “I am remiss about everything, then? I didn’t create her. Tell me how to make her look nearly thirteen.”
“Partly heredity,” he said.
They began to chat, and Mrs. Unwin to smile widely.
“I shall do whatever you say,” said Mrs. Unwin.
After the doctor had departed—Carmela saw him in his dark suit pausing to look at the datura tree—Mrs. Unwin sent for her again. “The doctorsays
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