Prized Possessions (33 page)

Dominic did not think of himself as a gangster. He thought of himself as an employer, a benefactor, a responsible citizen. Consequently he did not scorn the appeal of the social clubs' dinner dances and summer outings.

After all his papa, way back, had been a founder member of Glasgow's
Società di Mutuo Soccorso,
a piece of local history that hadn't been forgotten by older members of the Community and that added a certain piquancy to capturing the bashful young Manone for an appearance at a wedding party or a dance or an all-male smoker or in persuading him to address one or other of the
associazioni
in his capacity as a successful businessman.

How could he do else but pay lip-service to the principle of fascism,
Onore, Famiglia e Patria
– Honour, Family and Fatherland – that had always had such a grip on the southside
paesani
and one by which most of them had lived their lives? He was less sure about ‘Fatherland' than most of his countrymen, though, for his dealings were with Scotsmen and Irishmen and Jews rather than upright Italians, and his loyalties were often divided.

Never more so than that evening just before Christmas when he returned from the Rowing Club with Uncle Guido to find his Aunt Teresa entertaining guests in the big front parlour.

He was cold, hungry and preoccupied. A meeting with Tony Lombard had thrown up information that he would have preferred to ignore. In fact, if Uncle Guido hadn't been leaning over his shoulder he might have dismissed Tony's news as unreliable and swept it under the carpet. As the Alfa drew up in the drive of the house, therefore, Dominic's mind was on other things, churning over a situation that he hadn't encountered before, a matter that would require from him the sort of decisions for which Uncle Guido's training, and Uncle Guido's advice, had left him unprepared.

Guido rang the bell. Receiving no answer, he opened the front door with his latch-key. He called out his wife's name, upstairs and down, while Dominic took off his hat, scarf and overcoat and, still possessed by chilly thoughts, moved directly into the parlour to pour himself a brandy.

The women, all three, were sipping mulled wine.

The silver bowl that the Società had presented to Dominic's father before his departure for America – and which his father had negligently left behind – stood on a linen cloth on a mahogany side table, steaming quietly. Hand-cut crystal glasses and filigree silver holders were lined up by it, together with a plate of slices from the rich, brown, nut-filled
torta
that his aunt had baked some weeks ago and which, it seemed, had at last reached maturity.

The older woman he recognised at once: a tiny, wrinkled, whey-faced
nonna
to whom Teresa gave an inordinate amount of respect. Her name was Columbina Trevanti. She hailed originally from Tuscany and was one of the great clan of Lucchesi that made up a large part of Glasgow's Italian community. She was severe, hawk-eyed, deeply religious and, although her husband had been dead for forty years, still draped herself in widow's weeds and proudly claimed not to understand a word of English – which was not, Dominic thought, much of an advertisement for her intelligence.

He put his annoyance to one side, however, and because Teresa expected it of him, bowed and kissed the back of the grandmother's papery hand as reverently as if she were some sort of Papal nuncio.

‘Madam,' he said, mischievously neglecting to speak Italian. ‘What a pleasure it is to welcome you into my house.'

By way of acknowledgement she gave him a hawk-like stare and a dip of the head. He continued to hold her hand just a moment longer than deference dictated. The little black lace mitten hung loose about her wrist and thumb and he was tempted to adjust it, a gesture that would have affronted his aunt and damned him for ever in la Signora Trevanti's eyes. He put the hand down and turned his head.

The other, much younger woman was a stranger. He had never met her before; if he had he would surely have remembered it. She was the most beautiful creature that Dominic had ever seen, raven-haired, dark-eyed, with one of those noses that may have been straight or may have had about the bridge a trace of the patrician, that slight outward curve so beloved of the Venetian masters. Her lips were moist, red and unanointed. Her lashes were long, and modesty, not coyness, prevented her from lifting her gaze from her lap. She was too lush ever to model for the Virgin, though, and, now that he looked at her closely, seemed more Rubens than Titian.

In Italian, Aunt Teresa said, ‘I wish to present to you la Signora Trevani's granddaughter. She is from Barga and has recently arrived in this country.'

Dominic bowed but did not kiss her hand.

He knew what this was, what was intended. He was grateful to his aunt for bringing such a beauty to him and, in response to the sentimental notion that some day, in forty or fifty years' time, it might be a meeting that he – that they – would wish to recall in every detail, strove to engrave the moment in his memory.

Speaking Italian, he said, ‘What is your name, Signorina?'

She moved the hands heavily, folding one over the other, and still did not look up at him. She said, ‘Anna. I am called Anna.'

Aunt Teresa said, ‘She is Anna Casciani. She is the daughter of Nonna Trevanti's daughter, Augusta, who is married to Gio Casciani.'

Dominic said, ‘I do not think I have met them.'

‘They do not live in this country,' the old woman said; then added, ‘If ever you have a need to meet them you will have to travel to Barga.'

‘I see,' said Dominic. ‘I understand.'

He was still smiling his solemn smile, mixing welcome and gravity.

The redness of the young woman's lips had been caused by the wine and her hair, now that he considered it, was coarse.

When she finally glanced up he realised that there was no moment here, nothing that he would ever be called upon to cherish. She was lush and beautiful, yes, but he felt not one tweak of desire for her, only sadness that he must disappoint her – and himself – by reneging on the half promise that had been made on his behalf. She looked at him soulfully, heavy-lashed, jet black eyes moist. For an instant he thought he detected pleading there, a numb pleading that, at another time, on another day, might have touched his heart.

‘Do you have work, Anna?' he asked, brusquely.

‘No, sir. I do not have work yet.'

‘I am sure that my uncle will be able to find you a suitable employment, if that is what you wish?'

‘Yes, sir, that is what I wish for.'

‘Good.' Dominic bowed to his aunt, to the old woman, to the helpless girl from Barga. ‘I will talk to Guido about it. He will be in touch with la Signora Trevanti in due course. Now, ladies, if you will pardon me, I have a great deal of work to do this evening, so I will leave you to your conversation and your wine. It is a pleasure to have met you, Signorina Casciani. I hope that your stay in our country will be a happy one.'

Dominic turned and left the parlour, closing the door behind him.

He lingered by the parlour door for a moment but heard nothing, no mutterings, no sobs. In three or four minutes, as soon as politeness allowed, the old woman would lead her granddaughter away and he would probably not encounter the girl again; or if he did she would be keeping company with some dapper young man from the Lucchesi, son of a pasta baker or oil importer who would make her a better husband than he ever could.

With a rueful shake of the head Dominic put the beautiful girl from the old country out of his thoughts and moved softly across the panelled hall towards the stairs, thinking now of Polly Conway and how soon he might contrive to meet up with her again.

*   *   *

It was only recently that city offices and the Corporation's sundry departments had seen fit to close on Christmas Day. Shipyard and steel workers and all those who laboured in service trades and industries were still obliged to celebrate the Christian festival as best they could, without benefit of holiday.

In the tally of hours worked and rates paid, of profit and loss, no account was taken of Christmas and Scotland did not close its doors, as it were, until noon on New Year's Eve; at which hour the workforce streamed from yards and factories straight into bars and public houses to inaugurate two days and nights of patriotic toasts, ancestor worship and general claims of universal brotherhood that got more raucous and less convincing as the Old Year trickled away.

Lizzie and the girls had spent Christmas Day quietly at home, exchanging small gifts in a sort of embarrassed fashion, putting up a paper-chain or two and devouring a large steak pie and an even larger Scotch trifle.

Lizzie had been obliged to pay a dutiful call on Grandma McKerlie. She had taken Rosie with her while Polly and Babs used their free time to catch up on household chores, and on sleep. There had been a dreary, rather dormant feeling to it all, not just in the Conway household but elsewhere in Lavender Court, for the Hallops too were lying low, though Dennis had sold the Norton and a nice little 250cc Matchless to a dealer from Hamilton for thirty-eight pounds the pair and there was no shortage of ready cash.

On Monday evening, to Lizzie's surprise, Bernard had appeared at the door with a box of chocolates and a half-bottle of port but he'd stayed only long enough to swallow a cup of tea before he'd hastened off again to make, so he'd claimed, a few late calls in the neighbourhood.

Of Patsy there had been no sign at all and Polly hadn't the gall – or, indeed, the inclination – to seek him out.

Though Babs had sighed and dithered, eventually neither she nor Polly had deemed it wise to turn up at the Calcutta for any of the festive dances, and so had missed out on a gang fight that had taken place just outside the hall on Saturday the 28th, a real ding-dong affair by all accounts with blades flashing, lassies screaming and blood staining the cobbles. It was a mercy, so folk said, that nobody had got killed.

The week, the month, the year limped to a conclusion and the Gorbals, like all wards and towns in Scotland, braced itself to bid farewell to one grim year and, with a bewildering optimism, to welcome in another.

Mr Manone's collectors were out early on Hogmanay.

It was one of the tangled rituals of the season that debtors be given ample opportunity to start the New Year with clear consciences and clean slates and, by the same token, that creditors were paid whatever trifling sums might be owed them. Thus, later, Janet McKerlie would be able to claim that she had been the last person to see Tommy Bonnar alive.

This claim, of course, was patent nonsense. Tommy had made his rounds in early afternoon, had called in at the Rowing Club well before four o'clock and was holed up in the Washington Bar shortly after five. Dozens – nay, hundreds – of men had eyeballed him and more than a few had conversed with him in the period between one and midnight. Such evidence didn't deter Janet McKerlie, though. Showing a flair for fiction that Edgar Wallace might have envied, she stuck to her guns and announced that she had sensed that wee Tommy Bonnar was not himself and that she, and she alone, had seen the shadow of death hovering over him.

Whatever Janet had seen – tobacco smoke being the obvious answer – it certainly wasn't her boss, Mr Smart. He had gone off for a ‘wee refreshment' with a potato merchant from Lanark and hadn't returned until after two.

Tommy, on the other hand, had shuffled into the shop about a quarter past one; nothing unusual in that. Sometimes it was Tommy, sometimes Irish Paddy who dropped by the dairy but one or other of Mr Manone's insurance collectors would turn up without fail every Friday or, in holiday weeks, a day or two early to pick up the envelope that Mr Smart left under the tray in the till.

Mr Smart had been shelling out ten shillings a week for as long as Janet could recall. No, not quite. Before the war it had been five shillings and long, long ago – when she'd been hardly more than a girl and her brother-in-law had been the collector – it had been just half-a-crown. Come to think of it, Mr Smart was probably the Manones' oldest customer and the appearance of one of Manone's lads was a regular part of the week, like the arrival of a milk cart from Loft's farm or egg crates from Chisholm's.

Ten shillings was a not inconsiderable sum for a small shopkeeper to muster from takings that accumulated in pennies not pounds. Mr Smart didn't grudge it, however, and Janet had long since stopped wondering what benefits it brought, for whenever there had been a spot of bother with local hooligans – a window broken, a barrel of English apples stolen, a daylight theft from the unlocked till – matters had been settled without summoning a constable and the inevitable appearance of Health Inspectors and busybodies from the Department of Weights and Measures.

Mr Smart had been ‘compensated' by way of a brown envelope containing money and once by the appearance on the doorstep of a heavily bandaged young fellow lugging a sack of English apples which, out of the goodness of his heart, he'd decided to return, along with two home-cooked hams and four unplucked chickens to make up for any inconvenience his ‘mistake' might have caused.

Small wonder that Mr Smart didn't grudge ten shillings a week. In a neighbourhood where your laces could vanish out of your boots without you knowing it, three or four minor ‘inconveniences' in a dozen years spoke of a protective power – slightly less than divine – that was certainly worth appeasing.

Janet McKerlie wasn't the last person to talk with wee Tommy Bonnar before his tragic demise then, not by a long chalk. But talk with him she undoubtedly did. And if the shadow of the Grim Reaper was lurking in the doorway behind him she was just the lady to recognise it, given that she and her old mother talked of little else but death and dying.

‘Mornin', Jinty,' Tommy Bonnar coughed into his hand. ‘All set for the big night then, are ye?'