This is my new opening chapter for Orvieto. When I originally thought of the story it was in the point of her daughter Allesandra. I need some feedback on this chapter.

CHAPTER ONE

‘Marietta, there you are? I was getting worried.’

Aunt Maria’s words convert to English in my mind. It helps me process what I’m about to do. My passport is tucked in between my t shirts and jeans. ‘I thought you were waiting downstairs.’

‘I forgot my rucksack.’ I sit on the lumpy mattress, unable to move.

‘This is for the best, you know that. You cannot have a baby at your age. You are barely eighteen. You will meet someone in the future. Have a family of your own when you are ready.’

 ‘The baby I carry is my family. My baby grows, moves, dreams in my womb. How can I deny being a mama? Doesn’t James deserve to have a say in what happens to our baby? It is 1980, not the dark ages!’

‘Where is he now? Has your friend written since this happened? Marietta, doesn’t it say it all?’

Aunt Maria is so much like Mama, her long auburn hair covers her shoulders. Her clothes fit into a slim waist, and gentle smile.

I sit on the bed; my fingers wrap around the lumpy mattress. James’s last airmail letter was two months ago. His words weren’t distant, just worried. I wrote back telling him about going to high school and working in Papa’s restaurant with Bella.

‘He would if he knew. I couldn’t tell him in a letter.’ I look to the floor.

She sits next to me on the bed, with her arms around my shoulder. ‘Marietta, you are  not the first to get pregnant before marriage or the last. In a couple of months it will be like this never happened. I promise. You will still have a chance at an education.’

‘I do not want to forget her! Do you think I can concentrate on studying when I have given away part of myself!’

‘Don’t torture yourself like this. Come on carina, we have to go.’

Minutes later, I sit in the back of her car, clutching my rucksack. Inside, hidden at the bottom is the passport I stole the night before. Papa always leaves his documents in his bedside drawer. I replaced mine with a letter of the same size and shape.

‘It won’t take us long to drive to the Villa Pompheli. There is a Grocery bottle, with some water, on the back seat and a panini if you are hungry.’

The thick green, glass bottle is cold against my fingers. I drink because my baby will be thirsty. A shop brough panini, filled with ham and tomatoes, fills the car with an aroma of home. I bite into the soft bread, and it settles my stomach. The rest is placed on top of my clothes, along with water I have barely touched.

Cars constantly beep their horns for attention, and conversation is difficult. I am pleased of the awkward silence. Aunt Maria concentration is on the road. Scooters might turn sharply into lines of traffic and do not care if cars are in the way.

One arm loops around the handle of my rucksack, the other is on the metal handle of the car. I stare outside of my window. A blur of buildings greet me, but I am not interested in them. All I need are the Roma Termini signs.

The traffic lights slowly shift from green, to yellow. Aunt Maria slows down, not even looking in my direction. I sit as close to the door as I can. Slowing my breaths, I pull the handle down; my escape is lost within the horns blaring out their warning.

A scooter swerves away from my direction. I dash between heavy lines of traffic. Any minute they will turn green, and a bombardment of cars will rush forward. Please God, look after my baby My thoughts are for her safety not mine. I side step into the crossing and  trip over.

Cars rush past, taking Aunty Maria with them. She isn’t stupid, but she will not be able to change direction, not until I am out of view. The only way she can contact my parents is through a public telephone inside a café or shop. She always carries tokens in case of an emergency.

‘You okay?’

A woman, not much older than me, gently grabs my arm and helps me to my feet.

‘Si, Grazie, yes, I just tripped.’

‘You sure?’

I nod, brushing off the dirt on my palms. ‘Thank you . . .’

‘The name’s Clara.’

‘Marietta, piacere, sorry, that means nice to meet you.’

‘Piacere Marietta. Maybe you can help me, I am lost. I need to get to Roma Termini, but I don’t know where to start.’

She is not much older than me. A tourist in a crazy city. If I am with someone else, I will look less suspicious than a woman travelling alone.

‘I too am going there, perhaps an auto bus together.’ I look at my watch.

The last time I was here, we were travelling to France. I was fourteen. Papa wanted to see his brother’s journey in the second world war. We stood by the unknown soldiers grave, as his body was never found.

It was the first time I saw Papa cry.

‘There is a bus stop over there. I need to buy a ticket when I get to the train station, my visit was a little . . . last minute.’

‘Thank God I bumped into you. Mum is meeting me at Portsmouth. I reckon if you ask her, she will give you a lift to your friend’s house.’

She talks throughout the bumpy bus journey. Her first trip away, before she goes to university. I like her, but I cannot reveal my true reason for being here. When the bus stops, I am feeling sick. Aunt Maria must have found somewhere to stop. Passport control might stop me and send me back to the nuns before I have a chance to flee the city let alone Boulogne.  

We enter the full terminal, and I locate the queue that winds around the terminal like a spiral of smoke. I have thirty minutes to board the train. A wave of nausea hits me again. I cannot stop glancing at my watch. When we finally reach the kiosk, I take deep breaths in, to calm down.

‘A ticket to Boulogne, per favore,’ I say.

‘Thirty-five thousand lira,’ he informs me.

‘Are you sure that’s correct, that’s a small fortune,’ Clara says.

I turn around, and smile. ‘No, not really. It is worth about twenty-six pounds in your money.’

My future, half of the gift my grandpapa shared with me on my seventeenth birthday, is everything I own. Half of the cash, from the inside of my saddle bag, is handed over.