by Mary Contini
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Although the war in Africa was short and successful the feeling of relief that swept over the Italian community was delusional.
Newspaper reports that planes and tanks had knocked over mud huts and that poison gas had been used on starving people were dismissed as evil propaganda. Mussolini was a good man. He would never allow any such actions to be committed in the name of Italy.
In Africa, a new country was opened up to Fascism and to the Catholic Church. The Fascist army was followed by a Catholic army of priests, missionaries and nuns ready to save the souls of the Abyssinians and offer them Catholicism and ‘civilisation’.
The episode rocked the world. The British and French Governments became wary of the Italian dictator and reacted to Mussolini’s warmongering by imposing sanctions. Italy had failed in Africa before and had been frustrated after the First World War. In the Treaty of Versailles, Italy felt it had been shabbily treated, its heroic efforts not respected enough. The British and French failed to give Mussolini a clear enough message that his actions were unacceptable.
In his own opinion Mussolini had successfully out-manoeuvred governments, Church and enemies. He had won his African war and got away with it. Unfortunately, he began to believe his own propaganda and his own infallibility. Ominously he started to be impressed by his German neighbour.
Not only that, General Francisco Franco took courage from Mussolini’s bravado, and the Spanish Civil War broke out in July 1936.
Many Italians began to realise that the powers of the state were too strong and they mistrusted its relationship with the Church. They started to speak up against the regime and to disassociate themselves from it.
Many others, Alfonso among them, were still deceived by its guile and carried on regardless.
22
Edinburgh
1937
The Italian community all over Britain felt the backlash of the Abyssinian affair. In Edinburgh the excellent relations that the Consul and Alfonso had built up with the local authorities became decidedly chilly. There was increasing hostility in the press. It gave ammunition to anti-Catholics like Cormack, who held rallies and talks, and were now classing the Italians with the Irish Catholics, as a threat to the Protestant Faith.
News spread round the community that all was not well with the Italian Bank. For people unused to handling money or giving it to a stranger to look after for them, this seemed not surprising at all. Rumours spread that Olivieri from the bank had disappeared.
Within hours a crowd had formed at the bank’s premises in Union Place. The door was locked, the office empty. By the time Alfonso arrived, everyone was agitated. They turned on him, shouting questions in a state of panic. Alfonso knew no more about the situation than they did, but they didn’t believe him. He didn’t even know where Olivieri was. He had heard that there had been a meeting in Glasgow but he didn’t know what had happened.
Achille Crolla arrived, agitated and flustered. He pulled Alfonso aside. ‘We’re in trouble now, Zio. Look at this.’
He had a sheet of the Scotsman newspaper. Alfonso took time to read it. Oh, dear. They were in trouble. He called upon everyone, about forty men by now, to be quiet. He stood on an upturned lemonade box, speaking in Italian, anxious to prevent anyone in the street understanding what he was saying.
‘Senti, amici. Non vi preoccupate. Look, here is a report in the newspaper. Olivieri is in Glasgow. He has applied to put the bank into liquidation.’
They didn’t understand the word or how this could be something that they didn’t have to worry about. The bank was locked up. Their money was inside, all their savings. How could that be nothing to worry about?
‘What do you mean “liquidation”, Alfonso?’ Donato, one of the younger men called out angrily. ‘Do you not mean “bankrupt”?’
They all knew what that meant. They had heard radio reports about bankruptcies in America and were well aware of what it meant. If Olivieri was bankrupt then they were all bankrupt.
Alfonso felt extremely uncomfortable. It was he who had advised most of these men to deal with Olivieri in the first place. It had all looked good at the time.
‘Look, boys. Don’t panic. It says here that it is only a technical hitch. It’s something to do with the sanctions. Olivieri has funds in Italy but they are frozen because of restrictions on money moving out of the country. It says here that everyone will get their money. Everyone will be paid.’
It took all morning to calm everyone down but, unfortunately for Alfonso, they moved away from the bank down to Elm Row and hung around his shop all day discussing their finances and their chances of getting their money back.
Giovanni listened and waited till he had assessed their main worries. It dawned on him that it maybe wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
‘Boys, calm down. Calm down. Think about it. Yes, you’ve all got savings in accounts with the bank but most of you also have debts. If you think about it, most of us probably owe Olivieri more than he owes us. The best thing is to get back to work. Wait and see what happens. Open accounts with other banks and start putting your money into them. Keep quiet and don’t cause panic.’
A lot of the men went quiet. It was true. Most of them used the bank to get loans to buy their shops or pay for their stock. Many of them had accounts with other banks already. A lot of them had money under the bed. Gradually they left the shop. Best not to let anyone know what their financial situation was. If some of them were in trouble, best not to look too flush.
At the end of the day, Alfonso sat with Vittorio and Domenico discussing the situation.
Domenico was not too concerned. ‘It looks OK, doesn’t it, Papà? We’ve borrowed a ton of money from Olivieri.’
Alfonso wasn’t listening. He had just had a dreadful thought. He went as white as a sheet and had to wipe the sweat from his brow, smudging his white handkerchief with dirty streaks.
‘Papà, what’s wrong? What is it?’ Vittorio was worried. His father looked ill.
‘Oh Dio! Oh Dio!’
‘What?’
‘How am I going to tell your mother?’
They decided it was best not to say anything until they saw what was going to happen. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
When they got home that night they realised there was no chance of that. As soon as she heard their feet on the stairs Maria was at the door shouting in Italian at her husband. The neighbours all opened their doors to find out what was going on and were frustrated that they couldn’t understand a word.
While the men had all been at Elm Row thrashing out their concerns, their wives had turned up at Easter Road. Poor Maria had had an afternoon of grief from them.
Later that night, Olivia crept out of bed. She had listened to everything and, though she didn’t understand, she realised Papà was in big trouble with her mother. She found him sitting by the fire, his cigar in the corner of his mouth, looking very worried. She stood and watched him for a while, to make sure he wasn’t crying.
He looked up. ‘Olivia, cara, are you not sleeping?’
She came over, put her arms round him and sat on his knee, not saying a word. She smelled his cigar and cologne and snuggled into his chest, secure.
‘I’ll give you my pocket money, Papà. Don’t worry about a thing.’
He kissed her forehead and ruffled her thick black hair to reassure her. ‘Capa nera, capa nera! You’ll look after me, won’t you?’
They sat together until she fell asleep, then he carried her back to bed and tucked her in.
Valvona & Crolla was showing signs of strain as well. Alfonso had raised the two thousand pounds he had needed to do the deal with Valvona by borrowing far more than was prudent from the Italian Bank. The fact that his wife had deposited her hard-earned savings into the bank had helped persuade Olivieri to lend him the money.
In effect Alfonso owed far more to the bank than Maria had put in, though she didn’t see it th
at way. He was waiting to see what was going to happen. Meanwhile he felt he owed some help to the ones who were struggling. He felt responsible for involving them with Olivieri. He lent money to those who asked him and extended credit for those who needed it. He couldn’t really afford it but he felt he had no choice. Domenico was running the ice cream shops in Easter Road, and Vittorio and Alfonso were trying everything to get the new business at Elm Row to do well.
The narrow entrance and high ceilings in the shop at Elm Row were a problem for displaying food. There was no substantial storage space so the shelves were used to pack all the stock, right up to the roof. Every space was crammed with food and wine. Salamis, cheeses, garlic and herbs hung on strings from hooks in the ceiling.
The scarlet coffee roaster in the front of the shop was surrounded by jute sacks filled with green raw coffee beans. Every morning Vittorio lit the machine and, after pouring the beans into the coffer, stood shaking the large shallow roasting pan, checking the beans as they coloured. He rubbed the beans between his fingers, judging their oiliness and bit them, crunching them and smacking his lips to check that they had not burnt.
The aroma of roasting coffee was everywhere; it clung to your clothes, your skin and your hair. The caffeine in the air filled your senses and uplifted your spirits so that by the end of the roasting everyone was laughing and joking, teasing the customers and generally animated.
The intense smell invaded the air and drifted out into the street. From the top of Leith Walk a wonderful aroma of exotic promises drew customers in. They hung around, chatting and talking business, buying more than they intended to, captivated by the exuberance of it all. As people went in and did not leave, a queue built up, spilling out into the street and up Elm Row.
With no refrigeration, cheeses became ripe and pungent, melting over slabs of cold marble, adding a stinky smell to the atmosphere. Chillies and pepper nudged shoulders with vanilla pods and cinnamon, sacks of chick peas propped up sides of fishy baccalà. All the flavours and smells of the warehouse were transferred to Elm Row, but the smaller space and larger number of customers added the final magic.
Maria found herself back in the old basement where she had spent her first few months in Edinburgh. Now she was busy baking bread in the old bread oven under the stair. As soon as it was ready she brought it up to the shop, warm and steaming, piling it high at the door to tempt every customer to buy some.
Vittorio and Alfonso were men; order and tidiness were not their forte. The floor was packed with boxes, cases and tea caddies. Customers tripped over tins of tomatoes and packets of pasta. Flagons of wine and sherry dripped forbidden liquids into glass bottles that were filled to order. The place was chaotic.
They sold with enthusiasm. They naturally flattered and charmed, talked and laughed, selling cheeses and slicing salami. It was the news and gossip that were really interesting. No. 19 Elm Row became the second centre of the Italian community. As much lending and borrowing, winching and wooing, settling of quarrels and property transactions was done in the back shop as in the Consular offices in Picardy Place.
A few Scottish customers would timidly attempt to come in to the shop. Although they were entranced by the bustle and the range of produce, they found the smells overpowering and the babble of Italian so intimidating that they hardly ever came back.
Even though the shop seemed busy the business was still not making money. Valvona blamed Crolla, and Crolla felt it was Valvona’s fault. Soon the strain on the new partnership began to show. The costs of opening the shop, sanctions on goods coming from Italy and the Italians’ reluctance to pay their bills were putting pressure on cash flow. Hard work was not the only thing needed to run a business.
‘Mr Crolla, I am sorry to report that our Profit and Loss Account to date shows a net loss of £490. It is very disappointing that opening the premises at 19 Elm Row has not substantially increased our turnover and has in effect simply added to our overheads.’ Ralph Valvona was secretly pleased that the books were not looking good. He was not keeping well and found the energy and exuberance of the Crollas overwhelming. He had worked in this dreaded grocery business for over ten years. It was a mug’s game. You bought beautiful fresh produce, worked hard to sell it to the Italians, who complained constantly about the price.
They had no idea of the costs of transport from Italy and the overheads of a food shop. After they bargained the price down to the bare bones they refused to buy the whole thing and so left you with the crust of the cheese or the ends of the salami. Then, to top it all, Domenico gave some away, Vittorio offered discounts to his aunts and Alfonso ate whatever took his fancy. What a fiasco!
Alfonso felt ill at ease with this young man whose family had arrived in Edinburgh a generation before his. Ralph had a university education and knew far more about importing continental produce than all three of them put together. Alfonso felt intimidated, a sensation he was not familiar with.
But he was not put down by this young lad.
‘I take your point, Ralph, my boy, but if we examine the underlying causes, we can see that there are circumstances beyond our control. Trading is very difficult. The Italians are not spending; they are waiting to see what is going to happen with the bank. The strict sanctions have limited the importing of so many goods. At least there are no restrictions on macaroni.’
‘That’s true, Mr Crolla, but we need to look after ourselves. I see here that we are offering high discounts to Crollas and other family members. Is this good business to favour one set of customers?’
Alfonso thought this remark was impertinent. ‘Ralph, I have certain responsibilities within the family you know.’
Vittorio was sitting quietly; this was his very first board meeting in the small office at the back of the shop with Ralph Valvona. A small window in the door let him keep an eye on the shop. Vittorio felt proud. They had been doing rather well. The shop was nearly always busy and there was a queue outside the shop most of the day. Yes they’d made a loss, but profit wasn’t everything at this stage of the game.
Valvona & Crolla minutes, 28 Nov. 1936
He did not enjoy working with Ralph, who came to work dressed as a lawyer with his pin-striped suit and bowler hat. He was a grocer, for heaven’s sake. Yet he sat in the office all day and left Vittorio to do all the work. They had to bring Addolorata from the warehouse to help. His father was out most of the day, going round to call on the Italians in the van loaded with produce. He didn’t see what was going on. To top it all, Miss Dennison kept an eye on them all the time, counting the stock and checking the takings. It was as if she owned the company, not them.
He sat and listened to Ralph droning on. He was so negative all the time. Everything was doom and gloom. He couldn’t see the bright side. When Ralph started complaining that the wage bill was too high, Vittorio could keep quiet no longer.
‘Surely, Signor Valvona, it’s merely a point of view. With respect, look at Addolorata. She works for forty hours a week for less than ten shillings. That helps feed her mother and her brothers. She’s worried about what she’ll eat tomorrow. Here we are worried about wage costs, complaining about a book loss on our accounts, but we have a full stomach, and, look,’ he picked up the fiasco of Chianti that was already half-empty, ‘a bottle of wine in front of us.’
Ralph was just about to swallow a mouthful of the very same Chianti. Indignant at Vittorio’s cheek, he splurted it all over his crisp white shirt. When he finished coughing and choking he was thoroughly annoyed. What an impudent young man! Calls himself a businessman? He didn’t have a clue. ‘Really, Vittorio, you should have a little respect for your elders.’ He looked at Alfonso and raised his eyebrows, shocked. ‘You are very naïve to think that the wages you pay your staff are slight. In business you must learn to treat every expense with care. Every outgoing comes off the bottom line.’
Alfonso was incensed that Ralph was talking to his son like this. ‘Signor Valvona, I did not want to bring the matter up, but y
ou are aware, are you not, that £100 of our losses are directly accountable to a former employee of your esteemed father, who was embezzling funds from him.’
So they were going to blame his father! It was too much! Ralph stood up, pushing his chair over and taking a step back from the table. He had drunk two glasses of Chianti Ruffino which gave him the courage to give vent to his frustrations.
‘Mr Crolla, I would like to express my doubts that this working relationship will ever actually work. In my estimation it does not have a glimmer of hope of succeeding. Young Vittorio here has a lot to learn, he is hardly educated and is not at all sophisticated in the world of commerce. And you, Mr Crolla? With all due respect, you either give the profits away to your friends and relations or you eat them!’
Whether it was Valvona’s original intention to get rid of the business or whether Alfonso engineered the split, by January of the following year, Valvona had gone. Valvona & Crolla as a partnership had lasted barely two years.
Maria had warned them it would never work.
She had no chance to dwell on it. There were other things she was more worried about. The British Union of Fascists, an organisation completely independent of the Italian Fascist Party, was gaining notoriety. When its members held rallies or talks there was great public interest. Mosley, their much reviled leader, had held a rally in the Usher Hall in Edinburgh, which had resulted in a lot of trouble.
The Italians would never consider attending any of these meetings, nor were they even interested in them. Their world revolved around their family, Church and shop, not politics and unions. Nevertheless Alfonso was shocked at the violence that was generated by Mosley’s latest meeting, which was attended by over six thousand people.
