Papa Georgio by Annie Murray

pressed my face down to the earth, smelling it, the stalks of grass round my cheeks. I shook all over as if I was being wrung out, but I still didn’t cry.
    ‘Daddy…. Oh Daddy, come back…. Give him back…Ple-e-ase.’
    Only when I was quieter, just lying there with a sick feeling in my stomach, I became aware of the ripple of the wind through the treetops and grass. Raising my head, I stared up through the deep green branches. Though I was alone in this quiet place, I didn’t feel it. The breeze caressed my cheeks and I could smell the pines and the soil as if they were trying to comfort me and make me feel strong inside.
    ‘When you’re in the mountains,’ Daddy said to me once. ‘You have to be very, very strong. But it’s not how people think. You have to be strong the way a butterfly is strong. It doesn’t involve muscles. A butterfly is fragile, lighter than paper but it has the strength to fly. It’s about life - the force of your life and spirit.’
    At first I thought the new sound was the wind too, then it grew more distinct.
    ‘Aaa – e-e-e-ee… Ja-a-a-ney!’
    Tearing myself up from the ground I followed Brenda’s voice to the edge of the wood from where I saw her in the distance at the edge of the alpine meadow. She must have crossed the log bridge and was standing with her arms folded, wearing her flowery apron. Even from this distance she looked anxious. She caught sight of me and waved and I waved back and somehow felt pleased to see her, even though I never knew what to say to her.
    ‘Lu-u-unch!’ she called, and climbed back over the stream, holding her arms out to balance her. Grandpa appeared from behind the caravan.
    I strode back down through the grass and flowers and we sat down for lunch inside.
    ‘So you’ve been exploring?’ Brenda asked brightly.
    I nodded. ‘It was really pretty up there.’ I knew I wouldn’t say anything more.
    ‘D’you know,’ Grandpa announced, spreading his bread with pale Swiss butter. ‘When I was out there just now there was quite a bit of traffic going by and I’m sure I saw that Dreadful Van again.’
    ‘You mean…’ I began eagerly, about to say ‘the Ship of Dreams.’ But they wouldn’t get that – even Grandpa wouldn’t although he likes stories and adventures. ‘The one on the ferry?’
    ‘Yep – I’m pretty sure it was them – that Dreadful Man from Manchester.’
    And I felt a smile spread across my face.

Bella Italia
    I.
    LOG BOOK
    We’ve stopped at the funniest of places. We’re in Italy now. I’m sitting in the corner of a field and it’s chilly. Grandpa got me to put down the legs of the caravan and now they’re having cups of tea so I’ve been for a look round.
    We reached the border up in the mountains after lunch. The rocks on the road near the checkpoint were wrapped up in wire netting to stop them rolling down on us. There were all these guards in very smart uniforms and a Swiss flag on one side and an Italian flag on the other. They looked at our passports and nodded very solemnly at us. I think they had guns.
    One we’d driven off Grandpa cheered and said, ‘Bella Italia! Now this is more like it!’ Ever since we’ve been in Italy he’s been very chirpy.
    We came down the mountains with our ears popping and stopped at ‘cup of tea time’ as Brenda calls it – in this field. It had the little camping sign pointing to it, but Grandpa says it looks like a gold-panning town after the gold has run out. There are two other caravans and no one in them. Apart from that there are the toilets and for some reason, a tiny little chapel. The door isn’t locked and when I looked inside it all seemed to be wrecked, with plaster and dust all over the floor. There was still a little wooden stand to kneel on and a statue of Mary and a cross, but everything was all mucky.
    I wasn’t sure what to do but I prayed to the church god, just in case there is one, to give daddy butterfly strength so he can fly up above the