Hero on a Bicycle by Shirley Hughes Page A

to calm herself, and then stabbed the rest out in disgust. She went once more to the window. Out there beyond the terrace, where the trees cast dense shadows on the parched grass, she thought she caught a glimpse of a slight movement. A man detached himself from the dappled gloom of the hedge and came stealthily toward the house.
    Summoning all her courage, she went outside and paused at the top of the steps, peering into the dark.
    “Buona sera,” she said stiffly.
    “Buona sera, signora.”
    She could see his rifle but not his face, which was hidden under the peak of his cap.
    “You’d better come in.”
    The man turned back a few paces and gave a low whistle. At the sound, two other figures emerged from the darkness. She beckoned, and all three men filed inside.
    Rosemary shuttered and closed the French doors, drew the curtains, and switched on the lights, then turned to face them. All three were dressed more or less alike in Italian work clothes, but the two younger men were unarmed. One was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark. The other man was slighter and very fair, with a small mustache. Both looked thin and unkempt and had dark circles of fatigue under their eyes.
    The older man was sweating heavily. He removed his cap and loosened his scarf to reveal close-cropped hair; small, slightly slanting eyes; and several weeks’ growth of rusty-red beard. Rosemary turned toward his two younger companions, who, she realized, were not much older than her own daughter.
    “You must be tired,” she said. “You’ll be sleeping in the cellar here — not very comfortable, I’m afraid, but we’ve made up some mattresses on the floor, and it’s quite dry. But first, you must be hungry. We’ve prepared something for you to eat, if you’d care to follow me. . . .”
    They looked at her blankly and shuffled their feet.
    “They don’t understand, signora, ” explained their companion. “They don’t speak any Italian.”
    “Oh — of course. Forgive me.”
    After she had repeated herself in English, both young faces visibly relaxed. The tall, dark man gave her a grin of gratitude. “Thanks, ma’am. It’s real kind of you, what you’re doing for us. And yes, we sure would appreciate something to eat.”
    He’s American, or possibly Canadian, thought Rosemary. She smiled at him and turned to his companion.
    “It’s most awfully good of you,” said the fair one. He had the kind of unmistakable English voice that Rosemary had not heard for a long time. It made her heart contract with a sudden pang of homesickness for the country she had left so many years ago, a country that, for all she knew, no longer existed as she remembered it. She wanted to ask him where he came from and about his family and how he had been taken prisoner. But she knew that this was not the moment for conversation. And anyway, the less she knew about these uninvited guests, the better. Instead, she picked up a small oil lamp and said simply, “Follow me.”
    The makeshift accommodation that she and Maria had prepared in the cellar was indeed very primitive, but it was as welcoming as they could make it. Some plates of food, a pitcher of water, and a bottle of wine were laid out on an upturned packing case, and the two young men fell on it ravenously. They ate in silence, then slumped down on the mattresses, heads and shoulders drooping with fatigue, already nearly asleep.
    Rosemary turned to address the older man, but he had already disappeared. She found him in the hall, preparing to leave.
    “One night only, remember,” she warned him, keeping her voice as steady as she could.
    “Yes, yes, certo. But I have to tell you we may need your help in another small way, signora. ”
    “That’s out of the question. I’m already putting myself and my family in a dangerous situation, as you well know. You mustn’t ask any more of us. . . .”
    “It’s essential to our plan, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t ask it of you otherwise, and besides, it’s