Rose was woken by a loud knocking. She had no idea where she was or what time of day it was.
A door opened, thrusting light across her, and an overly cheerful voice announced, ‘Time to wake up, child. We need to be at the airport in an hour.’
Mrs Luca placed a tray on the bedside table and opened the curtains.
‘I hope you slept well,’ she said, disappearing through the door to re-emerge with an armful of clothes, which she laid on the bed. ‘Eat your breakfast, then get yourself dressed.’
Rose pulled herself up in the bed, while the woman plumped up the pillows behind her before placing the tray on her lap.
‘Bon appétit. Now, don’t you be long. It’s a beautiful day – a perfect day for going home.’
Rose waited until Mrs Luca had gone back to her own room to lift the silver lid that covered her breakfast. Underneath was a plate piled high with slices of cold meat, cheese, tomato and pickles. In a basket with a white napkin across the top were four different kinds of rolls, and in another, smaller basket were six tiny pots of jam. A bowl decorated with pink flowers contained a large pat of butter. Rose couldn’t help but gape. Is this all for me? She waited to see if Mrs Luca was coming back to join her, but the clatter of knives and forks next door told her that Mr and Mrs Luca had their own trays.
After endless bland and repetitive hospital food, Rose tucked in. Her first mouthful of salami sent a thousand taste buds into fits of delight, calmed only by the soft creaminess of one of the four cheeses, before being tickled again by the cool, sweet tang of ripe tomato and the sharp contrast of the pickles. She plucked one of the rolls from its nest. It was still warm and quickly soaked up the lashings of butter she gave it. She chose damson jam to go on top, only to be disappointed because it had none of the rich flavour of Esme’s home-made version.
Rose pushed the roll aside, her appetite spoiled in an instant by the memory of the smell of damsons, sloes or blackberries boiling away in the iron pot on their stove. She had loved it when they stopped the wagon in the middle of nowhere to scour the hedgerows for fruit. While Nicu stayed behind to check the wheels of the wagon, or to feed the horse, Philippos, or simply to smoke his pipe in peace, Esme led her and Rani away like troops on a mission. Rani wore his bowl on his head and marched purposefully in front of his mother and sister. He and Rose picked everything they could find among the lower branches of bushes and trees. Occasionally, they stopped to play hide-and-seek, especially in fields where the grass was long, or in shallow woodland, where there were plenty of trees to hide behind. Rani lost interest in collecting fruit sooner than she did, though he was quick enough to demand his share of the spoils when they returned to the wagon and Esme produced her delicious puddings.
Rose missed her little brother with a sharp pang of sadness. He was five years younger than she was, but he had made her laugh with his antics and the way he sometimes ran their mother ragged. He was always disappearing when it was time for his wash, and Esme could never find her cooking pots because he took them to collect beetles or slow-worms or frogs in.
Rose put the tray on the bed and slid out from underneath the covers. She was anxious to get dressed before Mrs Luca started to fuss over her. She took the clothes, locked herself in the bathroom, put them on and stood in front of the full-length mirror. She didn’t recognise the girl who stood before her. This girl was so thin! Her face was gaunt and pale. Her eyes were dull, her hair lifeless. She looked so much older, especially in the neat skirt and blouse, the white socks and shiny black shoes.
Is that really me?
She sat down on the toilet seat, feeling utterly exhausted.
‘It will take you a while to get your strength back, though you’ve mended well,’ Sister Orta had told her. ‘You were very seriously injured, so don’t go thinking you’ll be able to run around like other children until a good few months from now.’
There was a tap on the bathroom door.
‘Are you all right, child?’ an anxious voice asked.
Am I all right? Rose asked herself silently.
‘It’s time we were going. We don’t want to miss our flight, do we?’
Rose stood up and looked in the mirror again. She nodded her head slowly, then more quickly.
‘Will you come out now, child?’
‘What’s she doing in there?’ Another voice. Mr Luca. Impatient. ‘She’ll make us late at this rate. I don’t know why we’re bothering.’
‘You know why we’re bothering. It’s the least we can do. Please, child, come out now.’
Rose waited a few more moments before opening the door.
‘There,’ said Mrs Luca. ‘Don’t you look nice? Just let me tidy your hair and then you’ll look as pretty as a picture.’
Mr Luca tutted loudly as Mrs Luca fetched a brush, and more loudly still as she fiddled with Rose’s hair.
‘That’s it. All done.’ She stood back and admired her handiwork. ‘Perfect,’ she said.
‘For goodness’ sake, can we get a move on now?’ growled Mr Luca.
‘We couldn’t let the child go out looking as if she had just got out of bed, could we?’
‘I don’t care if she resembles the back end of a donkey, as long as we catch our flight. And when are you going to stop calling her “child” and tell her her name?’
The fixed smile dropped from Mrs Luca’s face. ‘Shhh!’ she hissed.
‘No, I won’t shush,’ snapped Mr Luca. ‘She needs to know before we reach the airport, before they check her papers. She could make it very difficult for us.’
Rose stared at Mrs Luca, who looked alarmed.
‘I . . . we . . .’ Mrs Luca began. ‘We don’t know your name. We can’t keep calling you “child”, can we? It’s not very friendly. Until you can tell us your real name, we’ve decided to call you Anna. We think Anna is a nice name. What do you think?’
Rose continued to stare at her, unable to take in what she was saying.
‘So your name is Anna Luca,’ Mrs Luca said, smiling again now. ‘My husband is called George and I’m Daphne.’