by Roma Tearne
The sun moved around the sky and the players wiped their foreheads with increasing frequency. Cecily and Tom collected the balls and threw them back to the servers who smiled their thanks and sometimes shouted, ‘Oh well done, C!’ Or ‘Neatly fielded, Tom!’
There was no sign of Bellamy but once or twice Carlo, running across the court, called out and waved at Cecily.
Tom discovered he was better at tennis than he had first thought so that finally he was roped in to play with Franca and another girl called Bella. No one dared suggest he played with Rose. She had beaten all the others. Only Carlo was anywhere near a match for her. Lucio watched the players while he smoked, his eyes half-closed against the glare. When Rose won he clapped loudly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Now and then his eyes would stray in the direction of the spectators sitting under the oak. After a while he went to fetch the ice cream. It was the moment they had all been waiting for. A shutter opened and closed, preserving forever an image in Cecily’s head.
Rose, laughing, bad mood all gone.
Carlo handing her a huge strawberry and chocolate Melba.
Rose’s laughter running around the garden like wildfire, touching everyone so they turned and looked at her and began to laugh too, without quite knowing why. Spontaneously combusting.
‘Bet you can’t eat it!’ Carlo said.
‘Bet you I can!’
Rose, hair tied in a hasty knot because she was so hot, wisps escaping.
Like honeysuckle.
Carlo tucking a strand into the knot with quick fingers as Rose kept on spooning ice cream into her mouth.
‘Oh!’ giggled Rose. ‘Oh! Oh!’
And then she was kissing and kissing him right up against the lilac bush.
Oh! Oh!
Rose, made for loving, meant for dancing.
Honeysuckle Rose.
Tennis-dressed.
Laughter rambling all over her face.
Rambling not-dead-yet.
When she had finished all of the ice cream, she wiped her mouth on a handkerchief embroidered with strawberries and tied in a knot. Then she went with him to find Franca and Joe.
Forget-me-nots?
Who ever would?
18.
BY SIX O’CLOCK the field had cleared and the band was warming up in the barn. Nothing would begin for another hour. Partridge was on his way to the station to pick up the last of the guests. Lucio had placed two barrels under a tarpaulin to keep them cool and there were two wooden butter-boxes with glasses in them borrowed from the White Hart pub. Next Lucio drove the car around the walnut tree and backed it up by the barn. Then he and Joe set up the tables with Anna’s white starched cloths. Agnes caught sight of Cecily and Tom as they raced into the house.
‘You children will be wrecked by this evening,’ she said, disapprovingly.
‘They should lie down on their beds,’ Cook said ‘and cogitate for a bit.’
Thankfully it was too late for that. But then, clamping his hand over his mouth, Tom remembered The Plan.
‘We must pack,’ he whispered.
‘Must we?’ asked Cecily.
‘Ssh! Not so loud. Remember, careless talk costs lives. You’ll give the game away at this rate.’
‘Cecily! Cecily! C!’ called Agnes.
But Cecily was escaping.
‘Coming!’ she lied.
‘Cecily!’ Rose shouted. ‘You took it. Who else would have? I’m going to tell unless you give it back.’
They were dressing for the dance. Cecily glared at her sister. Envy, disguised as a pair of Bakelite earrings, unclipped itself and was hurled into the air. Rose made an exasperated sound, trying and failing to catch them.
‘You little minx,’ she shouted.
Cecily put out her tongue.
‘You’re a rude little thief,’ Rose declared.
‘I’m not!’
‘Yes you are. You stole them, don’t deny it.’
‘I didn’t. I didn’t. They were on the stairs! I found them.’
‘You found them? Whose did you think they were?’
‘Stop showing off,’ Cecily cried at last. ‘You just want to show off to the Molinellos,’ she added with unusual bitterness.
Agnes groaned. And turned the iron off.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, raising her head. Then with a rustle of tulle under smooth tissue she picked up the dress she had been ironing and followed the noise.
Both girls stared sullenly at her.
‘Really!’ Aunt Kitty said, ‘you are too old to fight with your sister, Rose.’
Rose opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. The look she gave her aunt was the old scary one but she remained silent and Cecily, feeling a strange allegiance to her sister admitted, quietly, ‘It was my fault.’
Her sister had looked just for a moment as though she needed help.
‘Here’s your dress, Rose,’ Agnes said, handing over the long perfectly pressed satin sheath.
The satin gave off a faint scent of gardenias. As the door closed both girls heard Aunt Kitty’s voice, still grumbling.
‘At least she had her petticoat on this time.’
‘Well of course,’ Agnes replied. ‘What d’you expect?’
Rose and Cecily looked at each other. And then Rose burst out laughing. Cecily joined in. Her sister would look beautiful tonight. Suddenly, no longer jealous, she remembered the danger Rose was in. It was Cecily’s job to save her. And expose the traitorous Pinky Wilson. Cecily would do her duty and take care of all of it. Rose was looking at her in a funny way.
‘What are you muttering to yourself, now?’ she asked, amused. Agnes had put her hair up, Mrs Simpson-style. She looked better than the wretched Simpson woman, Cook remarked. Selwyn was wearing black tie.
‘What for?’ scowled Rose. ‘It’s only the charity dance.’
Cecily was wearing a ballerina dress that had belonged to Rose, years before. It floated whenever she moved.
‘You look very nice indeed,’ Agnes told her, tugging at her long hair until it shone, her smile going all the way up to her eyes. ‘This dress is appropriate for someone of your age.’
Everyone stared at the impossibly beautiful Rose as if they were seeing her for the very first time. Where had the old Rose gone? Years of nursery talk, of giggling, of midnight feasts and brown legs in sandals running across the beach, vanished in that moment, whisked away on a piece of buttercup-coloured satin. With sudden clarity Cecily saw her sister had left their joint childhood forever, leaving her, Cecily, to fend for herself.
Luckily Tom was on hand with the Mission Ahead.
‘Have you brought something to write with?’ he whispered.
‘So, why d’you need a pen?’ Rose asked in her new, amused voice.
Aunt Kitty became an unexpected ally.
‘I expect all would-be writers write things down,’ she said.
Aunt Kitty hadn’t got dressed up. It was just a mouldy old barn dance. It wasn’t London. Aunt Kitty was sulking and no one knew why.
Bellamy watched them walk towards to the barn. Then he slunk away. Captain Pinky was driving his car through the gloaming. He was going in the opposite direction, away from Palmyra Farm, but no one, except Lucio, saw him.
The Italian foreign minister has been told that Britain cannot agree to the five-power conference unless German forces withdraw completely from Poland. To which he is reported as saying, ‘the last glimmer of hope has died.’
It was a proper dance. Not just Mario playing his accordion. Cecily and Tom sat drinking lemonade out of tall glasses. There were lots of other children from Bly but Cecily didn’t want to join in with their games. At one point Carlo Molinello had come over. He was dressed formally and wore a jacket in spite of the heat. Cecily thought he was quite the smartest person present. He was the waiter for the evening.
‘Have some cider, Cecci,’ he said, and he handed her a tall glass with bits of fruit floating in it.
Then he
tilted his head and gave her a considered look.
‘You look perfect!’ he said.
Cecily controlled the desire to ask him what he thought of Rose.
‘In fact,’ he whispered, as though he could read her mind, ‘one day you are going to look prettier than even your sister!’
He rolled his eyes and made a gesture suggesting despair.
‘You will forget all about us, then,’ he cried.
Then Mario called him.
‘Wait,’ he told Cecily. ‘I’ll be back.’
But he wasn’t.
Franca, her dress tied with a red satin sash, danced with Joe. They danced the foxtrot. She had strung a daisy chain in her hair and every time Joe swung her around it threatened to fall and make them both laugh. It was hard to believe that Joe would be gone in a day. Agnes and Anna were organising mountains more food.
‘Your mother always liked to dirty her hands,’ Kitty said, coming over to a vacant seat beside Cecily. She lit a cigarette.
Even though they were now allies, Cecily didn’t like the slight sneer in her aunt’s voice. Kitty tapped her foot in time to the music, flicking it like a cat’s tail.
She finished her cigarette. Her mouth had a thin, sour twist to it that she was trying to hide but Cecily saw it anyway.
‘I’m going out for some fresh air,’ she said.
The music changed and Joe and Franca now tried to dance the tango but failed because they were laughing too much. Their audience shouted encouraging words and whistled.
‘Is your brother going to marry her?’ Tom asked.
Cecily nodded. She hadn’t delivered much post of late but maybe she didn’t need to any more.
‘What about the war? He’ll be leaving to fight in it, won’t he?’
Cecily pretended she hadn’t heard him. There was still no sign of Captain Pinky. It seemed several people could fall into the No-Sign-Of category.
Selwyn was one. Kitty had become another.
More cars were turning into the makeshift car park beside the tennis court. Lucio, standing with one foot against a wall, was smoking.
‘I wanted some fresh air,’ he said, smiling at Cecily.
‘Have you seen Pinky Wilson?’ Tom asked.
‘No!’ Cecily hissed.
She turned to Lucio.
‘He means Robert Wilson.’
Lucio looked surprised. Then he smiled.
‘Pinky?’
‘We’re not meant to call him that,’ Cecily said.
Lucio looked at her. Then he burst out laughing. He laughed so loud and for so long that they looked at him bewildered. When he had finished, he threw away his cigarette and kissed the top of Cecily’s head.
‘One day you’ll look like… your sister,’ he said.
Cecily shook her head, crossly. Why did grown-ups tell so many lies?
‘I won’t.’
‘Oh you will,’ Lucio said. ‘Rose looks just like Agnes. And you do too.’
He sounded both certain and sad.
‘Oh never mind that,’ Tom said impatiently. ‘We’ve got to go, Cecily.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ Lucio asked.
Cecily looked uncertainly at them both.
‘We think there is someone here up to No Good!’ she said.
‘What sort of No Good?’ Lucio asked, whispering too.
‘We’ve a hunch…’
Lucio waited.
‘No we haven’t,’ Tom said.
‘No we haven’t,’ she agreed.
There was a long silence during which Lucio looked thoughtfully at Cecily.
‘What d’you think of your friend, Pinky?’ he asked.
Cecily was taken aback.
‘Why do you ask?’ Tom, the first to recover, demanded.
‘We don’t… like him,’ Cecily admitted.
Lucio said nothing.
‘C’mon Cecily,’ Tom said impatiently.
Agnes, hovering in the doorway, faint music escaping behind her, saw Cecily looking up at Lucio and felt the same unfettered delight mirrored in her own heart.
She saw Cecily hanging on Lucio’s arm and the grave manner in which he listened to her, his face lit by something other than the twilight. And she felt her own body tighten with desire. All around in the summery scented skies were darting swallows.
Anna coming quietly up, seeing it too, placed an arm around Agnes’ waist and kissed the back of her head.
The music inside the hall changed. Mario was playing his accordion with the trio now.
‘How old are you, Lucio?’ Cecily asked above it, ignoring Tom for a moment longer.
‘Quanti anni hai?’ Lucio said. ‘You must learn a little Italian, Cecci!’
‘Quanta anni hai, then?’
‘Quanti,’ Lucio corrected her. ‘Alora! You are slaughtering the Italian language.’
‘But how old are you?’
If I could speak Italian, thought Cecily, would it help?
‘Your father is back,’ Tom said.
Lucio glanced up. And saw Agnes standing against the doorway cradled by an old Italian song. The music had thrown up all sorts of flowers around her. He looked on for a moment longer, drinking her in. Then he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again Agnes was no longer there.
The photograph that Mario would take that night was full of people who would not have cause for any future reunion. Most of those in the picture were untraceable after the war but for the purpose of the evening stared clear-eyed and smiling into a pensionable future, dressed in their September best. Oblivious to how, from memory’s frame, they would appear to a grown-up Cecily many years later.
No one smiling at that moment would know how time would blur their faces, for on that last evening of peace, no one wanted to think about the future. So after the tango (badly danced) and a couple of waltzes (executed now to perfection by Joe and Franca) the Italians settled into a comfortable stream of songs. And as the starry September night descended everyone danced with everyone else. A full harvest moon swung above them and the party spilled out onto the grass outside.
Rose danced with Carlo. And then with Giorgio. And after that, with Mario, who shouted to everyone to watch the pair of them.
‘See how this beautiful young woman is prepared to dance with me!’ he shouted.
Beppe, who had the beginnings of a fine crooner’s voice, grabbed the microphone and, slightly mockingly, addressing his father, began to sing. Anna rolled her eyes and handed around cake to those sitting on the edge of the room.
Franca came to find her mother. She had Joe in tow. Ah! thought Anna. So here we have it! The music changed. Beppe began an old love song as suddenly, in full view of them all, Lucio walked across to Agnes, took the tea towel out of her hand and led her out to the dance floor. But all eyes were on Joe and Franca.
‘Well,’ Anna said. ‘So when are you going to announce it?’
In answer Mario reached for Joe, pulling him towards him in a bear hug. A second later Franca was in his arms. Joe grinned. He looked around for his father but his father was nowhere in sight. Only his mother, turning in Lucio’s arms, with an expression Joe had never seen on her face, came hurrying towards him.
‘We make an announcement,’ Mario said. ‘Where is Selwyn?’
No one knew.
‘He was here a moment ago,’ Agnes said. ‘C, have you seen your father?’
‘I have, Mrs Maudsley,’ Tom said. ‘He’s in the car.’
‘Can you children fetch him?’ Mario said. ‘Tell him it is important! Hurry, hurry!’
Beppe was still singing. Anna would remember the song for the rest of her life, remember the look on her second son’s face, the sparkling lights, her husband standing with his arm around their daughter.
Anna would remember all of this in the years ahead. And she would remember Agnes in the emerald frock that matched her eyes dancing with her brother-in-law. But she would not recall where little Cecci was.
Selwyn was outside
talking to Aunt Kitty.
‘You know they have invaded Poland,’ Kitty said in a peculiar voice.
They came in then, to hear the announcement of the engagement between English Joe and Italian Franca. Mario, grabbing the microphone, made it all official, after which everyone clapped and clapped and some, chiefly Anna, cried. And Lucio, switching the radio off, wiping tables, squeezed water savagely out of his dishcloth as if it were an unwanted thought, trying not to look at Agnes.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Tomorrow would bring news of the future.
The spotlight followed Franca and her fiancé around the dance floor with everyone clapping in time to the music as madness escaped and attached itself to history in the making. Cecily was going to be the bridesmaid. And Rose too.
‘Where’s Rose?’ Cecily asked.
‘She’s got a headache,’ Agnes said.
‘Damn,’ whispered Tom. ‘There go all our carefully laid plans!’
Fools, thought Lucio. And he poured himself a grappa with a savage movement.
The air cooled.
‘Go and check,’ Tom demanded, so Cecily went obediently back to the house.
‘What are you up to, child?’ Cook asked, catching her just as she was sneaking across the doorway. And she caught Cecily’s skinny arm. Cook had a way of reading everyone’s mind.
‘Nothing,’ Cecily said.
And she relaxed her hand, cunning as a cat, so that Cook immediately stopped being suspicious and let go of her. Cook was looking for lamps to take into the field.
‘Can you look in the cupboard, there’s a good girl,’ she asked. ‘I think there are at least three more there.’
Cecily heard her remove the glass from one of the lamps and a match was struck. Then she turned up the wick and put the glass back over the flame and turned round. In the orange glow of the light thrown across the kitchen Cook looked enormous, like a hobgoblin in a fairy tale.
‘There’s two more, somewhere,’ she muttered. ‘Ah yes, I’ve got ’em.’
‘They’re heavy and too unstable when lit.’
