As he pushed open the door, a young girl dashed out and ran full tilt into him. She was carrying a record in its brown paper sleeve, and almost dropped it as they collided.
‘Sorry! Hey, are you okay?’ Alec put out his hands to steady her. It was Carmina Bertalone. Now here was one teenager he would be willing to find time for.
She looked up at him and laughed, velvet brown eyes dancing. ‘I’m fine. Who better to bump into than a handsome man?’
‘I rather think I’m the lucky one,’ he said.
She dimpled at him. ‘Will you be playing the records during the interval at the dance on Friday night, Mr Hall?’ Her lovely head tilted provocatively to one side as she innocently asked the question.
‘I might,’ Alec said, instantly dismissing his earlier plan to leave that to Terry as his gaze swivelled directly to her cleavage.
‘See you there, then.’
He watched the provocative sway of her hips as she walked away, the flirtatious smile she flung back at him over her shoulder, the swinging gloss of her ebony pony tail. Standing there, smiling after her like some awe-struck schoolboy, he felt again that quiver of excitement, the familiar ache in his loins. Young girls were ever his weakness, but then didn’t he deserve one, after what he’d been through?
Chapter Five
The Bertalone family’s ice cream parlour stood just inside the iron-framed market hall, a shining example of sparkling marble counter tops, huge mirrors, and brass and copper fittings. It was here that the ice cream was made, in a small, clinically clean room set behind the parlour. Patsy liked to help whenever she had a moment or two to spare during her dinner hour, if only because Papa Bertalone was such a kind man who had welcomed her into his family with open arms.
Not that she had much free time being pretty fully occupied helping Clara on the hat stall, working on projects for her millinery course, or creating hats for her own clientele. Nevertheless, Patsy was anxious to be a part of this family she was about to join when she married Marc. She loved to watch Papa making the ice cream. He was so very proud of his small empire, and eagerly embroiled in expansion plans for a business started more than sixty years ago by his great uncle.
Today he was making Peach Gelato, and her mouth was already watering just watching him gather the ingredients together: ripe fresh peaches flown in from Italy, mascarpone and yoghurt.
‘This tastes wonderful,’ she said, nibbling a slice of peach.
Papa grinned at her. ‘You come work with me in the ice-a-creama parlour and I teach you all you needa to know about ice-a-creama.’
Patsy instinctively glanced across at Carmina who was just a few feet away serving customers, the rigid stance of her spine loudly proclaiming that she’d heard every word of her father’s offer and resented it deeply. The girl would certainly not welcome Patsy’s intrusion into her own private territory even though she frequently trespassed on hers, and claimed to be bored sick of serving ice cream. Patsy gave Marco a rueful look even as she picked up a knife and began to chop the peeled peaches into small pieces, as she had done many times before.
‘My skills lie in a different direction. I love working with hats, and Clara needs me even more now that Annie has been forced to retire through ill health.’
Marco nodded sympathetically. ‘The Higginson sisters have been good to you, I understand, little one.’ He glanced across at Carmina’s stiff back, then tapped the girl on her shoulder. ‘It is time you take-a your turn on the ice-a-creama cart, Carmina.’
To Patsy he said, ‘The ice-a-creama industry it see many changes. My uncle he have the horse-drawn cart, all brightly decorated with his name in curly gold lettering. I keep it because I like to see it stand proudly on Champion Street Market, a testament to the success of our family. Maria used to work in it, now it is Carmina’s turn. Come along, girl, you will be late and your momma she will want to be released so that she can do her chores before the children come home.’
Carmina cast Patsy a vicious look before stalking off, skirts swishing, to do as she was bid.
Now what was that all about? Patsy wondered.
Papa Bertalone watched her go with a sad shake of his head. ‘She is wilful, this daughter. I worry for her. I worry for Gina too. Something is troubling her, I can tell, but I leave all of that feminine stuff to my wife. Daughters, pah!’
He shook his head in despair and Patsy couldn’t help but smile, knowing he adored and worried about each of them.
‘Sons are more sensible, more reliable. Soon you marry Marc and make-a-him show interest in the ice-a-creama,
si
?’
Proud though Marco was of his eldest son, Patsy was aware of his disappointment that Marc had chosen a different profession entirely.
Italians had been selling ice cream in Manchester ever since the first settlers came to Ancoats in the 1830s, driven from their homeland by poverty and a desire to better themselves. The area had come to be known as Little Italy because of the life the immigrants had brought to it, the typical Italian warmth, music and laughter, the gilders, carvers and instrument makers who had brought the flavour of Italy to the region.
‘When did you first come to Champion Street Market?’ Patsy asked now, wanting to distract him since he looked so gloomy suddenly.
‘I open my first ice-a-creama stall here in 1938, just a year or so before I was interned.’
‘That must have been painful, to be forced to leave what you had only just begun.’
Papa Bertalone gave a philosophical sigh as he peeled and pitted several pounds of peaches for the gelato with skilled fingers, Patsy working more slowly alongside.
‘There was no sugar during the war so ice-a-creama was banned. I couldn’t have carried on with the business anyway. There was some anti-Italian feeling, it is true, thanks to Mussolini, and my family they were put under the curfew, but I have no regrets.’
He lifted his hands, dripping in peach juice, as if to appeal for her understanding. ‘Why would I blame the authorities? They had no choice but to lock me up. I was one of the enemy, though not through any fault of my own. I have no quarrel with them. The camp on the Isle of Man, it was humane and civilised. We were not too badly treated and I survived. Many who had to fight in the war did not, so what right have I to complain? I am proud to be Italian, and content to have brought up my family in this famous city.’
Patsy knew that many of his fellow countrymen had attempted to disguise their identity by anglicising their names. Marco had never pretended to be anything other than what he was, a proud Italian. He and Carlotta had followed other family members to Manchester from a small town in southern Italy that nobody had ever heard of. Young and newly wed, they had fallen in love with this fine city, and with the warm, cheerful Mancunians who live here.
‘Now times have changed and as well as Uncle’s old cart, I also own two motorised ice-a-creama vans. I buy them so that I can expand the business for the sake of my sons.’ He shook his head in a gesture of despair. ‘But do they care? Allessandro and Giovanni are too young and Marc shows no interest. We waste the wages of a driver when my own son could be earning the money, for you, for the bambinos you will have together.’
Patsy wagged a gently admonishing finger. ‘Hold on a minute, don’t expect one of those any time soon. I’m in no hurry to become a mother.’
‘Every woman she wants to be the momma.’
Patsy laughingly shook her head. ‘Designing and making hats keeps me fully occupied,
and
creatively fulfilled, thanks very much. I’m young yet, remember. Maybe in a few years, when I’m twenty-five or twenty-six, or even thirty, I’ll start to think about kids.’
Papa Bertalone looked shocked. ‘Thirty! But you would be too old for babies by then.’
Patsy laughed. ‘I don’t think so. There’s plenty of time.’ Judging it wise to change the subject, she asked him what made Italian ice cream so special.
Marco frowned, fully aware he’d been sidetracked, and said rather irritably, ‘The best ingredients, what else? We use real fruit - fresh and ripe. We use creama, butter, and with some recipes, eggs. With these we can produce the finest ice-a-creama. There is none better in all of Manchester than Bertalone ice-a-cream, so mucha flavour, so good to lick.’ He grinned and Patsy laughed again.
‘I agree. Bertalone ice cream is the very best ice cream in the world,’ and on an impulse hugged the old man. But it seemed that even when you did have a family, life was still full of problems.
If asked, Carlotta would have agreed with her. As she made breakfast for her brood Momma announced in brisk Italian, ‘Gina, I am very disappointed in you. What were you thinking of? You are certainly
not
going to any dance. Papa and I won’t hear of it. In any case, dancing would not be good for you.’
Gina cast a furious glare in her sister’s direction but only twin spots of colour high on Carmina’s cheekbones revealed any show of guilt over the fact she’d reneged on her promise to keep her secret.
‘Why wouldn’t it?’
Gina longed to live a normal life, to be free to do as she pleased like other girls. She adored her family, loved her siblings but envied them their freedom. Maria, the eldest, was the only Bertalone girl to be married. Antonia at twelve was the clever one while Lela was the complete opposite, never quite seeming to understand what was going on around her but happy for a cuddle if there was one going. Marta liked to organise and constantly made lists. She was determined to play an important role in the family business one day, while eight year old Gabriella was as much of a Tom-boy as her twin brother Giovanni.
They all enjoyed school or work, had friends and hobbies, played out in the street till it was quite dark, and never ailed a thing. Yet somehow Gina felt hedged in by restrictions, by doom-laden prophesies of what might happen to her if she walked too far, worked too hard, or stayed out too late.
She’d certainly worked hard on her recovery, still went to the public swimming baths twice a week, not to swim but to go through a carefully designed programme of exercises. She’d been fortunate to find a woman doctor who was forward thinking enough to suggest it.
Gina accepted her limitations. She had problems with lifting and carrying things. Her arms and elbows weren’t very strong, but she had learned to ‘read’ her body, to judge when to stop an activity. If she noticed the onset of twitching or pain, or a reduction in control of the muscle, then she would rest. Yet too much inactivity was equally bad for her. It was vital that she keep mobile. Her condition was considered to be stable but, particularly with the right leg, she had to watch out for excessive fatigue.
Oh, but she felt good about herself inside, almost stronger for having come through this terrible illness. Okay, she was a little nervous, deep down, of going out into the wider world, but she was tired of being protected. Gina wanted to expand her horizons and live a little.
‘You know very well why,’ her mother was saying, as she had a thousand times before. ‘You are not like other girls. It worries me that you won’t see that you have special problems.’
‘You shouldn’t worry so much, Momma. I had poliomyelitis, we can’t change that fact. But I’m making a good recovery so why won’t you let me go out and enjoy life a little more, like other girls? I’m sixteen years old, for goodness sake!’
‘I can’t let you because it would make you sick again. You know the doctor said you must not get too tired.’ Her mother made a little huffing sound as she tipped porridge into Gina’s bowl. ‘Now eat up every scrap. We need to put some flesh on those bones, to keep those muscles strong. In any case, the Fabrianis they are big rivals of Papa, they do their utmost to damage his business. You know this, so how can you even think of going with that Luciano? He is nothing but a hooligan.’
‘That’s not true. Luc isn’t a hooligan.’
‘Stop this, Gina. Don’t your momma and papa know best what is good for you?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Gina muttered into her porridge, but no one heard her. The Bertalones were not good at listening. Momma was weeping and wailing over disobedient daughters while her siblings were rushing to put forward their own point of view on the subject. And of course they were all saying how much they loved and cared about her, suffocating her with their concern.
Carlotta wagged an admonishing finger in Gina’s face. ‘Let me tell you, girl, even if you are ever fit enough to consider marriage, it will not be to a man your papa and I do not like.’
Gina sighed. She might have pointed out that it was surely more important for
her
to like the man concerned, rather than her parents. Instead, she said, ‘It’s just a dance. No one has said anything about marriage.’
‘
Dios
, I should hope not!’ her mother cried, clapping her hands to her breast.
Gina escaped to her room but the subject came up yet again when papa came home for his dinner. And he was clearly ready to firmly back her mother’s stance.
‘Why you not tell your momma you go out with this boy, huh?’ he demanded to know in his broken English, and Gina had no answer. ‘You see him how many months? One, two … more?’
‘Since January.’