She forced a smile to her lips.
‘All holidays end, Ben. Now, come and say goodbye to Captain Falieri. He’s been kind to us. Very kind.’ She felt her voice crack dangerously.
She took Ben’s hand and led him dejectedly out into the hallway.
‘Goodbye, Ben,’ said Captain Falieri gravely. He held out a hand to him.
Ben did not take it.
‘Am I really not a prince any more, Captain Fally-eery?’ His eyes were wide and pleading.
The Captain shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Ben.’
‘And Mummy isn’t a princess?’
‘No.’
‘It was only for the holiday, Ben. Us being a prince and princess,’ said Lizzy. It was the only way she had been able to explain it to Ben.
‘What about Tio Rico? Isn’t he a prince any more?’
Lizzy’s hand rested on his shoulder. It tightened involuntarily.
‘He will always be a prince, my darling. Nothing can change that.’
For one long, terrible moment she met Captain Falieri’s eyes. Then looked away.
She waited as he took his leave, walking out into the rain. She heard the car door open, then slam shut, and the engine rev. The car drove off down the lane to the coast road, heading back to the airfield, to the waiting plane that would take him away.
She shut the door as a spatter of rain came in on the wind.
She shivered.
‘Let’s light a fire, Ben. That will warm things up.’
But she would never be warm again, she knew. A terrible, deathly chill embraced her.
How am I going to bear this? How?
The question rang out in her anguish, but she had no answer. There could be no answer.
She went into the kitchen. Captain Falieri had very kindly stopped at a supermarket on the way from the airfield and bought some provisions for her. They would do until she could get to the shops. Mechanically she started to unpack them, and then put some milk to heat on the electric cooker. Warm milk would be good for Ben. They had eaten on the plane; it had helped to make the journey pass. It wasn’t really very late, though the rain made it seem darker. Only a few hours since they had left the villa. Only a few hours…
She stilled, unable to move. It was like a physical pain convulsing through her.
With all her strength she forced herself to continue, to make up the fire in the range, set it to draw, check the heat of the milk.
Ben sat at the table, head sunk upon his arms, a picture of misery.
I’ve got to keep going. It’s all I can do. Just keep going. Keep going.
It became her mantra. The only thing that got her through the evening, got her through the following day. And the one after that. And it would get her through the one after that. All the days that stretched ahead of her.
For the rest of her life.
It was unbearable—yet she had to bear it.
There’s nothing else. Nothing else I can do. Just keep going.