1986 is a year that lingers in the memory. In January, just 73 seconds after launch, the space shuttle Challenger disintegrated. Three months later, in the little-known town of Chernobyl, reactor number four exploded, creating fear and alarm across Europe and beyond.
They were both devastating events, but the reason why I will never forget that year is because it was the summer we went to the Alps.
It was the year I met Gabriella.
And lost my innocence.
Money was tight growing up, which meant we only took the caravan to Europe every other year, my parents assiduously saving anything spare in between so we could afford to go. Mum and Dad went without a lot to ensure we had a decent holiday because they thought it was important to create good memories.
That year we went to the south-east of France. The day after my last school exam, we set off for three whole weeks of vacation. Including the night on the ferry, it took two days to get there. Two entire days to get to the Parc Naturel Régional du Queyras at the southern end of the Alps next to the Italian border.
Our campsite nestled in a wide mountain valley with a picturesque river gently gurgling through it. Most of the pitches were under or near clusters of larch trees, so there was plenty of shade when it got hot. It wasn’t as busy as we’d expected, with plenty of space between each caravan along the riverbank. I guessed people were staying away because of Chernobyl.
An only child, I’d recently celebrated my fifteenth birthday and was starting to stretch the elastic that bound me to my parents. I was savouring the opportunities to explore and discover; to push the boundaries and start expressing myself in ways I’d never had the confidence to before.
I saw her watching us just as we were finishing setting up camp. Huge dark eyes and jet-black hair cut in an unruly pixie-bob. She had a captivating, heart-shaped face and was dressed like a tomboy with sandals, short shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off her tanned, slender arms and legs.
My parents saw where I was looking and smiled. “Alright then. Go off and play. We’ll finish up here.”
She was mute. I never understood why she couldn’t speak, and later her parents just shrugged when I asked. She could laugh, but she never said a word the whole time I knew her.
I learnt that her name was Gabriella, that she was Italian and lived in Naples. And for the whole of that holiday, whether in bright sunshine or pouring rain, we spent every waking moment we could together.
I didn’t understand Italian, and she couldn’t talk anyway, but somehow communication between us was never a problem. Somehow, we just understood what the other was thinking. I would speak in English, and Gabriella would nod. It was the first time I’d experienced that level of understanding with another person – almost like telepathy. And it was enchanting, and exhilarating, and I couldn’t help falling in love with her.
We spent most of our time roaming outside, inventing games, climbing trees, running, jumping and getting soaked in the river. I loved seeing her laugh – especially as it was the only sound she made – and her laughter was infectious and warmed my heart and made me want to put my arms around her and hug her tight.
Our parents scolded us when we turned up late for dinner covered in scratches, but the rebuke was always gentle and accompanied by tolerant smiles.
Gabriella’s mamma and papà – Sofia and Enzo – kind of adopted me, and I often ate with them. Lunch was usually crusty French bread with local Bleu du Queyras cheese followed by refreshing slices of watermelon, and in the evenings, they cooked spaghetti and laughed as they watched me struggle to eat it, and I would blush in embarrassment as I spilt sauce down my front.
I don’t think my own mum and dad minded. When I reflect now, as well as delighting in the fun I was having, I think they relished the opportunity to be alone together, holding hands and flushing with self-conscious amusement when I eventually turned up.
ooOoo
The accident came out of nowhere; I never heard or saw the danger, but Gabriella did. Unable to yell a warning, she hurtled into me and took the full brunt of the impact.
ooOoo
I woke up, and Gabriella didn’t. I was utterly bewildered as I saw her lying there, crumpled and broken like a rag doll, her huge eyes open with the life seeping out of them, and all I could think was No! And, why, why, why?
Then my parents were there, and they held me as I sobbed, and Sofia wailed, and Enzo took me in his arms and added his distraught tears to my own.
And in one devastating instant, my innocence was gone forever.
ooOoo
This is the first time I have returned since that appalling day. There is a pang as I look once more at those same larch trees whispering their lullabies along the river, and I cannot help but recall our laughter as we held hands and leapt into the burbling water. The memory saddens me still, but I also remember our joy and think that maybe, just maybe, I will weep less now.
I turn and smile at my husband. I look at my daughter’s tousled head and wonder if she’s too young to know how she came to be named. Gabriella is fifteen – exactly the age I was that summer.
I’d looked up the meaning of her name when I was pregnant. Derived from Gabriel, Gabriella meant ‘Heroine of God’.
Never was a name more fitting. Without her bravery, I would not be here. Nor would my wonderful daughter.
That summer she had been my first love, and my own Guardian Angel.
