Women on the Home Front (133 page)

She was young and fit and lonely. Marco was tired and weak, without hope, and she felt more like a widow than a wife. It was not his fault that he could no longer
make love to her. They still tried but it was hopeless, and Marco cried in her arms every time. Rosaria was a miracle, a gift from God that neither had ever dreamed would happen.

Their marriage was so brief, separated by war and now sickness. At the weekend he came home if he was well enough but his weeks were spent up on Moses Heights in the sanatorium with glass windows and doors flung open to the four winds.

She would take the bus after work and wave little Rosa to him through the window, leaving her to sleep on a bench while they spent a few minutes chatting about all the goings-on, trying not to let him know how she was coping without him, trying not to worry him. He was growing weaker, his eyes were often misted over with sadness.

She felt so guilty to be relieved when the visiting bell rang and she could escape back to the bustle of the town away from his sickness.

On Saturday Angelo fetched him home for the night and they cooked a special meal to celebrate.

Sunday nights, after Angelo picked him up, were the worst. There was no café, no theatre crowds, no cinema queues. The town fell silent and she was so alone. Sometimes then she felt like a bird trapped in a cage, a silent canary whose heart was bursting with song yet whose throat was choked so not a note could come. That was when the loneliness stalked up her stairs and rattled at her door. Only being busy took her mind from such fears.

It was not as if she didn’t love the ice-cream parlour.
It was her own living opera, in which all the dramas of life unfolded before her. It was a cosmopolitan haven in this northern cotton town. The walls were plastered with autographed photos of stars of the music halls, theatre, ballet companies, all the stars who had trod the boards of the King’s over the years: Charlie Chaplin in Fred Karno’s Circus, the Lupinos, George Formby, Ben Lyon and Bebe Daniels, Nosmo King, Izzy Bonn and Richard Tauber; all the greats had stepped inside their parlour for a snack.

She loved to creep up into the sixpenny gods, the topmost balcony of the theatre, to see the finales of musicals and operas.

Sometimes she stared at those stars on her walls with faraway eyes. If only she had had her chance to dance and sing, to make music in costumes in the limelight, shine in the footlights. She loved the sad ballets and operas, the dying maidens, the star-crossed lovers; all that drama of life and death unfolding before her into a climax of passion, the soaring orchestra, the tears and the silence. Then the National Anthem was played and everyone rushed out, leaving her to the empty theatre, the smell of stale ale and cigarettes, all passion spent.

It was better than any cinema screen to see actors in the flesh. Some stars would chat to her at the stage door. They looked so ordinary without their face paint, muffled in headscarves and trilby hats, creeping back to their digs for the night. Some went straight next door to the Bear and Staff to drink away their wages, then stagger out, waking her in the small hours. She knew their secret admirers, their secret peccadillos, and
she loved them all for they brought the world to her door.

It was easy to transfer these daydreams on to her customers, who crowded her bench seats each day. There were the regulars, shoppers, Charlie Lunn, the uniformed booking attendant who worked the queues in the foyer of the King’s and let her know if anyone special was performing. There were visitors and strangers who intrigued her.

In the quieter moments, when she was busy cleaning the chrome coffee maker and the glass domes of the soda fountain, polishing the marble counter top, she would look again and see Romeo and Juliet in the eyes of the couple holding hands over table five in the corner. She was sure the couple who came each Thursday afternoon, who gazed into each other’s eyes before leaving separately, were lovers from
Brief Encounter
with ‘Guilty’ written across their foreheads. Then there were the tearful eyes of the soldier and his girlfriend, saying their fond farewells. Would the girl betray him, like Carmen? Some of the local women behaved like pantomime dames, gossiping and mouthing their secrets like Norman Evans in
Over the Garden Wall.

There were the poor old souls full of tales of woe, faded actors in shabby tweeds, Svengali illusionists, who paused over their drinks, holding court and signing autographs recalling better days. There were the boasters who scattered famous names into their conversations like sugar cubes into their tea.

There were also some of Angelo’s army compatriots
from Manchester, who hung around for free drinks, the worst of her countrymen, with greased, slick hair and thin moustaches and lecherous eyes, who would feel up her legs given half a chance: Iagos and Malvolios the lot of them! She loved the Shakespeare plays even if she could not always understand the words, but the coming of the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company with Gilbert and Sullivan operettas she loved the best, and she managed to make it to every performance.

One day she was going to take little Rosa up into the gods to see the ballet. It was never too soon to give a child a taste of the theatre. Angelo’s wife, Tina, said there was a new dancing class starting in the top of Church Street Buildings, with a baby class. She could not wait to sign Rosa up for it when she was out of nappies.

Classes and ballet shoes cost money, and she must keep the family happy, keep a roof over their heads in the hope that one day Marco would come home for good, but there was a look in his eye that reminded her of Camille, of Mimi in
La Bohème
, a faraway look in his dark eyes she dreaded. It was as if he had already gone.

The family tried to help. His mother was on her knees in Our Lady of Sorrows every day pleading for his recovery. His brothers visited him when they could, but they were always very busy so it was up to her to visit every moment she was off duty. Sometimes she resented his illness so much.

When she walked into the ward he was grateful, pleased to see her, and yet exhausted by her visit so that
there was never a right moment to ask his forgiveness. She had not been to confession for months and it had not gone unnoticed by Nonna Valentina.

Maria was so tired of being the strong one, the breadwinner, the tough little sparrow with not an inch of flesh on her, with cheekbones pointed like ice-cream cones. Always she must smile at the customers, see to Enzo, and keep Nonna Valentina off her back.

Now there was a lull, so she dashed upstairs again.

‘I’ve phoned Angelo. He not be long for you. Where you come from? How long do you stay in Grimbleton?’ she asked, curious about the two foreign ladies.

‘I am from Greece. She from Burma,’ said Ana.

‘Soldiers bring you back home,’ Maria smiled. There were two Italian war brides who popped in to chat just to hear their own language and moan about the English weather.

‘We come alone. We are widows,’ said Su, as if she must speak for the both of them.

‘My Marco make you welcome? You like this town?’ Maria asked, sensing tensions. Ana burst into tears. ‘Is all my fault…I come to find olive oil and there is none, no tomatoes, no orange and lemons, nothing but fish and chips and white bread,’ she cried. ‘We come here to ask you to help us and now we lose Ivy’s pram. I no want to go back there.’

‘There is not a drop of olive oil in this town. Perhaps little bottles in chemist that taste like cat pee,’ she smiled and tapped her nose. ‘But not impossible for Santinis to find some for you. Everything you can get at the right price if you know who to ask and you ask right.
I can find you a little now, if you wish.’ She pointed to a cupboard door.

‘No, no…not from your rations. We can wait,’ said Lily, embarrassed. ‘You’ve been kind enough.’

‘I have a list too,’ piped Su. ‘Where can I get chilli peppers, garlic, mangoes, green tea?’

‘Hey, one at a time!
Mamma mia
…I can spare you a little oil, real thing from Italy. The rest I don’t know. Garlic we grow in garden and tomatoes in shed but it is too cold now. The oil here is no good, rubbish, best for engine in car or suncream. I find something for you next time you come,’ she added, knowing they were honest and would return with their taxi fare.

‘Efaristo’
, whispered the Greek girl with the sad green eyes. She looked as if she was carrying the troubles of the world on her shoulders, homesick, cold and pinched in the face. ‘You are kind.’

Not bad coming from the lips of a Greek to an Italian. It was hard not to hug her right there, to reach out to her and tell her it would be ‘OK’ but Maria knew better than to make false promises.

She still yearned for the bustling streets and the heat and dust of Palermo, for all she had left behind, battered by war. Instead she patted the
bambina
’s golden curls. ‘She looks like an angel. What’s her name?’

‘Konstandina Eleni, and this is Joy,’ said Ana. ‘Rosaria is a pretty name too.’

‘Will you stay in Grimbleton?’ Maria asked, knowing there was not much work for widows now the men were coming back into the mills and factories.

The two girls looked at each other with anxious eyes.

‘We will go back to Division Street with no shopping, no pram and no money for the taxi, and so we must find jobs, I think,’ said Susan. ‘But we will pay you back,’ she added hurriedly.

‘We’ll come back to pay you, I promise,’ Lily smiled shyly.

‘If you come on a Sunday I make you tea and the
bambini
can play together and I find you some oil,’ Maria said.

There was a hooting from the pavement and a battered Austin saloon car was parked, with Angelo leaning over for his passengers.

‘Angelo is here for you. You come next week, yes?’ Maria ushered them out of the door, waving, and they nodded and waved back.

I have made new friends, she thought: girls who are not related to Santini men through work and marriage with their myriad ties to the Italian community; lonely hearts, two young mothers with little girls for Rosa to play with.

It was an answer to her prayers. They would keep her out of mischief, give her someone to cook for. It would make her hospital visits bearable and keep her loneliness under control.

How many times had Lily rested her puffy ankles in this café, never knowing what a little firebrand lived only a staircase away, she thought as they made their way home. They might have lost a pram but they’d all found a friend.

Marco had done his best to entertain them but he
was a spent fuse. He must have been so handsome before his injury. ‘You make self at home,’ he had smiled.

Lily had reached out to grasp his handshake but it was limp like an old man’s hand. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and his hands shook when he dragged on his cigarette. How sad to see someone so young look so broken and infirm. A puff of wind would blow him over; yet another casualty of war.

Here she was thinking herself hard done by in Waverley House, when poor Maria was trying to run a business, care for a sick husband and little girl in this tiny flat. It made her feel ashamed of all her recent bad temper and frustration. Time to count her blessings.

‘You will come on Sunday,’ Maria shouted as they were leaving, ‘all of you and Lily?’

Why not? Suddenly Grimbleton seemed full of possibilities. One visit to Santini’s wouldn’t rock any boats. There’d be time to see Walter later.

‘It is good you make friends,
mia cara
, but Greek and foreign all together, Mamma might not like it,’ Marco said with a look of concern on his tired face after the three women had left.

‘It is good for me to make friends of my own. I am lonely. They need friends, I think.’

‘I understand. I am no good husband,
finito,…
’ he sighed.

‘You get better every day. I can see it in your cheeks,’ she lied.

‘You think so? I feel so tired. I’m letting my family down.’

‘No silly talk,’ Maria smiled, kneeling by his chair, leaning her head on his knees. They felt so sharp and bony. ‘You are my big hero, my
sposo
, and Rosa’s
papà.
We need you to get better soon.’

‘But I can’t work for you,’ he said, slumping back into the cushion. ‘This is no life.’

‘But I’ll work for both of us until you are strong again. I will make you better. All you need is time and rest. And NO SMOKES!’

‘You are a hard woman, Maria. The best of all the Santinis.’

Then there was an almighty crash of broken crockery coming from downstairs and some fine Italian swearing in the kitchen. They looked at each other in horror.

‘Enzo!’ Maria screamed, and made for the stairs.

The following Sunday, Lily and the girls took the bus down to town to collect the Santini pram. They were in disgrace and all hell had broken loose when they’d returned without the Silver Cross.

Lily rapped on the café door and Maria shot down the stairs to greet them.

‘You came! Welcome! Come in but first I give you this.’ She pointed to a shiny metal go-chair. ‘It has a seat front and back. You like? This is for your
bambini.
Keep it as long as you like.’

What could they say, thought Lily. It was a bit battered but serviceable. ‘You’re very kind,’ she said. ‘But there’s no need—’

‘No! It is nothing. It will fold up for the bus. I am sorry, but these people around here…I not understand.’
Maria waved her hands in the air as if gathering all of the town. ‘In the war they steal and they smoke. They smoke and drink in our café, very cheery, and then they smash all windows. Just because we are Italian. They come one night. I was woken by a terrible noise. They take Papà, Marco’s father, to the police station and ask, “Where are your sons?” He tells them, “All my sons are in the British Army in the Lancashire Fusiliers.” It is crazy so they arrest him and send him to Bury. It is a terrible place, a camp in a mill with no water and no beds. He is an old man. But the priest make a big fuss and he comes home.

‘We had to paint, “We are British Citizens with sons serving in the Forces” on our windows. So I think now that foreigners must stick together.’ She finally drew breath.