This is my second chapter of Orvieto; I would love to hear what you think.

CHAPTER TWO

I linger passport control, my body already  betraying my escape. Would Aunt Maria would have found somewhere to stop? Do my parents know of my escape? Did she phone the Guarda? Clara passes her passport, without losing eye contact.

When it is my turn, it takes all my effort to do the same.

The Guarda holds my passport, assessing the blank page. If he asks the question, will it be easy to lie again? Have I thought this part through? My actions could get Clara into trouble – they will believe she has something to do with me running away.

‘How long are you travelling for?’ He looks at me directly, his glare almost blinding.

‘Two weeks,’ I say.

‘Who are you visiting?’

‘A mutual friend in England,’ I say.

Lies easily slip out of my lips. Ashamed of the depth my deceit, I clutch  my silver cross. This is for my child. I will bring her up in the eyes of God. Please, she deserves to have both parents that love her.

‘What is the purpose of your visit?’

My tongue feels so dry, I cannot speak.

‘It is her eighteenth birthday. If that’s all, we need to catch the train before it leaves,’ Clara says.

He passes my passport back and moves us forward.

‘What was that all about?’

‘It is better I travel with other people. I’m sorry to . . .’

‘No, not that. You have every right travelling alone! It is the passport police I am talking about. I meant, what’s with all the questions?’

Before I can explain, a high-pitched whistle, from the conductor surges the crowd on to the train. I slip my passport back into the saddlebag. The deep horn blares across the carriages. Clara motions me to move. I follow my new friend through the narrow corridors. Every so often she looks at her ticket before she finds the right room.

‘This is my room,’ she says, looking at her ticket.

The door slides open to reveal a safe space. There is a double bunk, covered with blue cotton sheets. The shiny surface of polished wood increases its comfort. Clara shuts the door behind us, and motions for me to sit on the bed.

Click, clack, click. Wheels clatter over the tracks, taking me further away from the border. Whatever happens I will make it to Boulogne. What will I do when I get there? Buy another ticket, more unwanted attention.

I sit on the soft mattress, sinking my hands into the plush pillows. I am so tired, Bile rises in my throat; I cannot be sick in front of Clara.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I mean, I have travel sickness. Perhaps if I eat something,’ I say. Taking out my panini, the hard edges are bitter on my tongue. My stomach rumbles like Mount Vesuvius before it erupts.

‘You’ve gone awfully pale,’ Clara places a hand on my shoulder.

‘Sorry, I need to be . . .’ I say.

I slide open the door, rushing towards the corridor. I run into the aisle, searching for a toilet. Somewhere I can be sick without anyone noticing. Another passenger leaves, and I step inside the small room with a toilet and sink.

Finally alone, my legs buckle against the metal floor. The contents of my stomach empty into the metal  bowl. Even when it is over, bile burns the back of my throat. I pull my heavy body into horizontal position. Another wave of nausea hits, nothing but bile layers the sink.

‘Marietta, are you okay? Clara asks.     

‘Sorry, Mi dispiace,’ I say, wanting the familiar sound of my own language.

‘Please, Marietta. You are worrying me,’ Clara says.

I open the door.

‘You look like death. Perhaps we should ask the conductor on the train to get you some help.’

‘No, please . . . don’t do that.’ I twist back,  lean over the sink and wretch.

Clara slips into the small space – rubs holds my hand until I stop being sick.

My long auburn hair sticks to my forehead. lumps of cheese are stuck to my shirt. Clara helps me stand up. She takes some toilet paper from a container and wipes my lips.

‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘No need for that. It’s not your fault.’

Clara slips her arm into mine, and we walk back into the room. I sit  back on the bed and push the panini into the bin. Clara dives into her backpack, finding a packet of ginger biscuits. She passes three over.

‘I’m not hungry,’ I say.

‘Trust me, it will help. Also, I am about your size.’ Clara pulls out a spare t-shirt with lemons on the front. ‘Put this on, you will feel a little better.’

I change into her top, and the expensive material smooths into my skin. I bite into the soft ginger. It helps to quieten the noises in my stomach.

‘You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’ Clara asks, sitting next to me.

I don’t expect to tell the truth; yet it is out before I can stop myself.

‘Yes. Three months. I jumped out of the car while my aunt was driving me to the nuns. I didn’t realise how busy it would still be. You were there, and I wanted to be with someone. I didn’t mean to use you, but . . .’

She smiles, and squeezes my hand, allowing me the space to gather myself back to normal.

‘I am travelling to England to see James. He is the father of my baby.’

Clara puts an arm round my shoulder. ‘Bloody hell! I didn’t expect all that. How on earth did you do all this? I mean, you could have been killed jumping out of the car.’

‘Everyone wants to make the decision about my baby, but me. I don’t want another woman bringing up my child. My parents wouldn’t listen. They thought James would not take responsibility. I know he will . . .’

‘Sounds like you were desperate.’

‘Yes, and I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to get into trouble, but a woman travelling alone is more suspicious.’

‘Don’t worry about that, I am more concerned about you. Have you got a ticket for Boulogne Marina?’

‘No . . .’

This is not what I expected – Clara could walk down the corridor and tell a conductor. I would be back with the nuns within an hour.

‘I will buy your one, and before you argue, it is on me. When we get to Portsmouth I’ll ask Mum to take you to your boyfriend..’

‘Your mum will not . . . she will call my parents.’

‘I can’t promise she won’t. Marietta! It is the only way. Mum will know what to do. Besides, what is the other option? To be honest, I’m worried, you will try and get to Boulogne on your own. That wouldn’t be safe, for you, or your baby. You look done in, why don’t you get some sleep.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, leaning into her kindness.