The sun was remarkably hot for early May and even the locals were complaining, but to Lucy it felt wonderful. Compared to the humidity of Africa, she loved the dry heat that was doing a magnificent job of soothing her nerves, recharging her batteries, and helping her to get the rest and recuperation she knew she needed. R&R was what her boss in Kinshasa had called it, but he had always liked acronyms and abbreviations.
‘Get yourself some R&R for now. There’ll be plenty of time to talk about your future with us in a month or two. You’ve been hard at it for almost four years now and you’ve recently been through a very tough experience; you need to rest and recuperate. Leave the DRC and go get some R&R – that’s what you need.’
She hadn’t disagreed with him.
She stretched in the hammock and turned slightly so that the gentle breeze blew across her cheek. It felt good. She had arrived at Daniela’s house a week earlier, after six days in Budleigh Salterton with her parents, deliberately playing down her hasty exit from the latest flare-up of hostilities in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. To her irritation, her airlift to safety in the nick of time had been picked up by the mainstream media back in London. There had even been reporters and a TV crew waiting for her as she emerged bleary-eyed into the Arrivals hall at Heathrow airport. She had muttered a few comments about her good luck, her concern for the fate of her patients and colleagues left behind, and her desire to take a break, and then had had to suffer sitting next to her parents that evening as she saw her face on the six o’clock news. Was she really that skinny and did her hair really look that unkempt?
Inevitably her mother had homed in on the fact that she had lost a lot of weight in Africa, but Lucy had been able to reassure her that she had every intention of remedying that during her visit to Italy.
And she had been true to her word since arriving here in Poggio San Marco.
Daniela’s mother had insisted that Lucy stay with them in their rambling old farmhouse and had reacted in exactly the same way as Lucy’s own mother had at the sight of her, throwing up her hands in horror at her emaciated appearance and insisting on force-feeding her mountains of home-made pasta, local ham, cheese from their own goats and enough steak to keep an American football team happy. In fact, Lucy didn’t need to be force-fed. The food was excellent, especially when accompanied by home-made ice cream and Daniela’s uncle’s red wine, and she had let herself be spoilt rotten. In return, she had been helping with getting everything ready for the wedding that was coming up in just four days’ time and doing her best to stop Daniela from freaking out.
Now, as the pounds – or at least ounces – started to pile back on, she could feel her energy levels rise once more. Things would have been perfect if it hadn’t been for the recurrence of blood-soaked dreams involving machetes, machine guns and worse. She was still waking up almost every night, bathed in sweat, her mouth wide open in a silent scream. During her four years in Africa, two of them out in the wilds of Mabenta, she had seen too many of the appalling injuries and deliberate acts of mutilation inflicted upon men, women and even children – many of whom had died without her being able to save them – and these graphic images returned night after night. It then often took a long time for these horrific memories finally to subside and for her to able to drift off to sleep once more. Still, she told herself over and over again in the welcome light of the following dawn, this was to be expected after her close call at Mabenta, and everybody knew that post-traumatic stress needed time.
As she began to feel better physically, she started to give serious consideration to what she should do after the wedding was over. Her intention had been to take a holiday for a few weeks, but, nice as it might sound just to lie about in the warm Tuscan sunshine without a care in the world, she knew she would soon be bored. Maybe she should do something practical like improving her Italian with a course at one of the language schools in Siena, or volunteering for an archaeological dig or some such to keep her occupied. The more she thought about it, the idea of just heading for the beach or the depths of the country and doing nothing wasn’t going to cut it.
And then there was the question of what to do after this period of R&R. After what had happened in Mabenta, she knew she didn’t feel like taking on another mission to such a remote and dangerous location – at least not for a good long while. MSF operated in over seventy different countries all over the globe, from South America to Asia, and she felt sure it should be possible to find something a bit less stressful if she asked for it. The complication was that since returning from Africa she had started giving her future serious thought, and not only as far as her medical career was concerned.
She would be thirty-six in six months’ time and it hadn’t taken her mother’s far-from-subtle interrogation last week for her to realise that she rather liked the idea of a ‘normal’ life; preferably involving a permanent address, a partner, children – one of each – and a dog or a cat or both. A few roses around the door wouldn’t go amiss either. On one level this almost annoyed her as she had always thought of herself as a self-sufficient kind of woman who was quite happy without the usual trappings of conventional life. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Her introspective reverie that afternoon was interrupted as Daniela returned from work.
‘Ciao Lucy. Had a good day?’
Lucy opened her eyes and smiled. ‘I’ve had a very good and very lazy day and, for just about the first time in two weeks, I’ve started thinking about work again. How was yours? Been busy?’
Daniela was a journalist with a Tuscan newspaper, based in Siena, and Lucy knew she enjoyed her job.
‘Not too bad, thanks. Tomorrow’s my last day in the office for a few weeks and I’ve spent today handing over to Tommy who’s going to be standing in for me while I’m away on our honeymoon.’ Daniela perched on the table alongside the hammock which was strung across the open-sided loggia. This veranda, shaded from the direct sun, had a spectacular view down over the olive groves and across the valley to the city of Siena on the slopes of the next hill. ‘So, what have you decided about work? Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going back to Africa.’
‘No, that’s definitely off the agenda – at least for now. I’m still having bad dreams about the place. No, I’ve been thinking about something a bit closer to home.’
‘MSF are active in southern Italy, aren’t they? Your Italian’s good enough. Why don’t you see if you can get a transfer over here?’
Lucy’s mother had been friends with Daniela’s mother since university and over the years when their daughters had been growing up, the two families had often holidayed together here in Tuscany. As a result, Lucy spoke fairly reasonable Italian, although her years in Africa had tended to favour her French to the detriment of her Italian, but now that she was here again for the first real holiday in over ten years, it was quickly coming back. She nodded.
‘I was wondering about that. There’s been a big MSF operation in Sicily for quite a few years now, looking after the flood of migrants coming over from North Africa. Now that Italy’s got a much more right-wing government, they’re clamping down on immigration, but I imagine there’ll still be a need for medics for some years to come.’
‘Pietro and I’d happily come and visit you in Sicily if that’s where you end up. It’s a gorgeous part of the world and we’re going there for our honeymoon. For now, the important thing is for you forget about Africa and just relax.’ Daniela reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘And don’t worry, the bad dreams will stop, I’m sure. Just give it time.’ She pulled out her phone and consulted it. ‘Anyway, listen, I’m meeting Pietro in Siena in an hour. He sent me a message ten minutes ago. Here, let me read it to you.’ She scrolled through to the message. ‘Here it is. Ciao Danni. See you at six. Bruno’s going to be there. He remembers Lucy from years ago and wants to catch up with her again. Why don’t you come to Siena with me? What do you say? You haven’t seen Bruno for a long time, have you? You’ll be surprised by him now. He’s moved on a lot since you last saw him.’
Lucy sat up – or rather, she tried to sit up in the hammock but failed. Instead, she had to lift her legs out and slide somewhat inelegantly to the ground beside her friend. She straightened her crumpled clothes, stretched and smiled.
‘Bruno? I’d love to see him again. He was always great fun when we were playing together as kids. He was forever telling jokes and getting into trouble. Do you remember when he stuck an egg up the priest’s exhaust pipe and spray-painted half a dozen nuns?’
‘How could I forget? But, like I say, he’s moved on a lot since then.’
‘I suppose he must have done. A lot can happen in, what, fifteen or twenty years since I last saw him?’