by Annie Murray
‘Did you ’ear that?’ Nancy turned in exaggerated outrage to the others.
‘You asked for every word of it, Nance,’ Doris said. ‘So just shut it, eh?’ The others agreed with her. None of them liked Nancy, despite her pretty looks and winning ways. Didn’t take anyone long to work out she was as two-sided as a half-crown.
‘You’d better pack it in the lot of you,’ another voice said from down the far end. ‘Mr Broadbent’s about today and you don’t want him ’earing this carry on, do you?’
We certainly didn’t. I went back to work, picking up each bit of moulded brass, trying to check it as thoroughly as I could. Mr Broadbent was a kind, straight man and I’d do the very best for him I could. When I glanced up I could see Nancy looking hate at me along the table, her auburn curls pushing out from under the snood we had to wear. Even in the dull light from the grimy factory windows I could see she had rouge on her white cheeks, and her thin, heavily plucked eyebrows made her face look wrong somehow – cheap, like one of Morgan’s trollops. I saved that insult up for the next time I might need it and gave her my best ‘and bugger you too’ look down the long table.
If I could have kept my attention on all the most horrible insults I could think of to hurl at Nancy it would have been much the better for me. But I spent the day in the most agonizing state of mind, imagining terrible things. I kept seeing Micky and Stevie and Theresa’s jolly Uncle Matt struggling in the waves, sinking down and down until they were lying on the bottom of the seabed but somehow never dead, always alive, peering helplessly up into the murky water.
After work it was still warm and sunny. I found Teresa packing up the shop for the day. She was wearing the orange dress with the splashes of yellow on it. Without saying anything I picked up one of the boxes from outside and carried it inside for her and together we gathered up the empty crates on which they arranged the pyramids of fruit.
When we’d finished both of us straightened up and I looked into her stricken face. She was holding on tight, I could tell. She couldn’t seem to speak. After a moment she shrugged despairingly.
‘Oh Teresa – come ’ere.’
We stood in each other’s arms and Teresa held me very tight as I did her, our cheeks pressed together.
‘We don’t know they were on that boat,’ she said fiercely. She squeezed me to make the point more strongly. ‘We’ve got to believe they’re not – till we know for sure. But we haven’t heard from them . . .’
I saw her pull her mind away from that thought.
‘You’re brave, Teresa. Much braver than me.’
She shook her head. ‘Not brave. It’s just, if we think of the other, of what might’ve happened, we can’t go on. Mom says the same.’
Teresa bent to bolt the doors of the shop, the orange dress tight over her hips. I thought how grown up she was, now she was allowed to be.
‘Genie—’ She stood up, hesitating. ‘It’s just – we’re all going to Mass now. Would you come?’
In all the time I’d known Teresa I’d never once been to Mass with her. In fact I’d not often been to church at all. Mom and Dad certainly weren’t regular attenders, just went sometimes at Christmas. I had been on occasion with Nanny Rawson who barely ever missed a Sunday. Mom said she used to go to get an hour’s peace from my grandad and his keeping on, but I reckon it was more than that. I don’t know how you’d carry on the way Nanny Rawson did, keep steady, without faith in something or other flickering inside, and the religion she’d been given was Church of England. Sound and solid and no lurching from one extreme to the other. No fripperies, preferably no smells and bells, and what little I’d seen of church was along those sober lines.
The Catholic religion was seen by people like us as something very different from ours. Foreign, baffling, full of dread. The Pope and lots of what Nan called ‘paraphernalia’ like statues and incense and rosary beads. She’d been up in arms when Lil announced she was marrying Patsy, until she saw that even though he was a Catholic he was no more religious than she was and probably less so.
So it felt peculiar to be walking across towards Digbeth to Mass with the Spinis.
‘Are you sure they won’t mind?’ I whispered to Teresa. Vera was beside us carrying Luke, and Teresa was leading Giovanna by the hand.
‘Course not. People’ll be pleased.’
Vera’s face was drawn and stony and none of us had said much on the way across town except Luke who kept chattering, and we took it in turns to answer. All Teresa said to me on the way was, ‘Now I know what it must be like for you.’
St Michael’s was in Bartholomew Street, near the railway. Inside it seemed very dark after the bright afternoon and I liked the strange smell in there, the whiffs of wax and incense and floor polish. It was stuffy and cosy and the candles made me think of Christmas.
A row in front of us sat the little stooping figure of Nonna Amelia, Vera’s mom, and beside her Vera’s other two brothers, Marco, with his pretty wife and two children, and Paolo who wasn’t married. Their hair was black as crows’ feathers and clipped very neatly round their ears. Nonna Amelia had a black lace mantilla over her white hair and when I looked round I saw Vera, Teresa and Francesca were wearing them too and they looked pretty. Nonna Amelia turned and nodded at me, a warm expression in her eyes. A moment later she swung round, passing me a dark green handkerchief embroidered with white at the edges. As I took it from her gnarled hand, Teresa whispered, ‘Put it on your head.’ Nonna Amelia nodded as I laid it softly over my hair.
Most of the women I could see were kneeling down holding rosary beads and the Hail Marys were rattling out at top speed. I was surprised how quiet and well-behaved the kids were. Luke sat wide-eyed next to Vera, sucking his thumb.
A bell rang and the priest suddenly started speaking from absolutely miles away down the front somewhere and I wondered why they didn’t get him to shift forwards a bit so we could all see him. ‘In nomine Patris . . .’ Everyone was crossing themselves and I was completely lost after that. Couldn’t understand one word of it. And it looked to me as if he’d lost quite a few of them there because they just carried on all the way through with those rosary beads as if nothing was happening at all, not seeming to take the blindest bit of notice. I mean in my nan’s church people tried at least to look as if they were listening.
But I started to feel really grateful for being there. Normally at this time of night I’d be pelting about at home cooking tea with people on at me. My heart was so heavy and at least here I had some time to think. All these people came to my mind, Micky and Stevie and Uncle Matteo, and my own dad, and my mom too, until I thought I’d burst with sadness there in that church. Vera’s face looked so grieved, and I thought about Mom struggling on at work and all that had happened to us. I’d wanted to believe that if I tried really hard I could somehow make things right. Make my family all right. Now though, I saw there wasn’t much I could do about anything except to hope and pray.
After lighting candles at the end of Mass the family gathered outside the square-fronted church. Nonna Amelia shuffled out on her little bowed legs, supported by the arms of her two sons, the mantilla pulled softly back to lie on her shoulders. She wore little black mules on her feet and a black shawl, and rosary beads the colour of gunmetal hung from her waist. She had not put on mourning clothes for her son or her son-in-law. Mourning colours were her permanent state, her everyday clothes since the death of her husband, Papà Scattoli, eight years earlier. With her hunched shoulders it was hard for her to raise her head completely straight and she looked more at home in a chair than standing.
I’d always liked Nonna Amelia, even though I could barely understand a word she said. This was partly with it being in Italian, but also because she had no teeth. Her lips had shrunk into a web of deep wrinkles all pointing inwards round the little dot which was all you could see of her mouth, like water being sucked down a plughole. She was all there, Nonna Amelia, even though she didn’t sound it, because the words ca
me out all soggy, as if she had a mouthful of sawdust. Her eyes were sunken and brown like a little monkey’s but glowing with life. There was a slight tremor to her neck which made it look as if she was nodding wisely at whatever was being said.
All of us went ceremonially to kiss her velvety cheeks and she nodded at me kindly and mumbled a greeting as I handed back her hanky, just as if I was one of the family. Her son Marco stayed with her while his wife and Paolo distracted the kids, Paolo throwing Luke high in the air so he gurgled, and tickling Giovanna and teasing her by untying the bow in her hair.
The rest of them gathered round Vera. Marco put his spare arm tightly round her and for a moment she said something to him in a low voice and leaned gratefully against him, closing her eyes. Her two sisters embraced her as well, their eyes full of concern, of fear.
There were similar groups along the pavement. The attendance at Mass was far higher than usual that evening. The priest came out and mingled among the crowd. He was Irish, not Italian. A priest would visit once a year or so from Italy and preach a sermon in Italian and this was always an occasion. But this priest was able to give them his sympathy none the less. A lot of the people there were still in their work clothes, the men in boots and caps, women in old everyday frocks, not like their Sunday best. I stood by Teresa as people milled back and forth, all talking in Italian. I didn’t need to ask Teresa what they were talking about.
You could see the shock and worry that the sinking of the Arandora Star was causing in the Quarter. Some of the internees, especially the younger ones, had been released and sent home not long after they were arrested. Some families had heard from their relatives that they were safe in transit camps, but there were a few others in the same position as the Spinis, who had seen and heard nothing of their men since their last hurried visits in Steelhouse Lane police station, and they all knew that the very worst outcome, the news they most dreaded, was far from out of the question.
People kept coming to talk to Vera and Teresa, nodding to Nonna Amelia who had earned a lot of respect and liking in the district. She barely spoke, her eyes moving from face to face from the support of her son’s arm, but her silence seemed to speak of their pain more than the words of those around her.
A young man came up to Teresa and put his arms round her shoulders for a minute. He looked older than us, had a head of black, curling hair. Immediately the two of them were off, gassing away, and I watched, puzzled. Teresa seemed to know him well, was at ease with him. There was none of the dizziness I’d seen in her over Jack and Clem. She talked to him as she would have done Stevie or Tony. He did a lot of the talking, seemed worried.
Teresa interrupted him. ‘Carlo – this is my friend Genie. I s’pect she’s had enough of hearing all this Italian.’
‘Sorry.’ He smiled, held out his hand. Two blazing blue eyes looked into mine. He was so handsome, even dressed in his old work clothes. ‘Nice to meet you, Genie.’ He frowned at Teresa. ‘I’ve heard of Genie, haven’t I? How come we never met before?’
Teresa shrugged. ‘She doesn’t come to Mass. We’ve been pals for years. Her nan lives up the road from us. Hey, look—’ She nudged Carlo and pointed.
Three men were standing together, one of them, the oldest of the three, talking loudly at the others, arms moving back and forth, touching the fingers of one hand against his forehead then beating the air.
‘Fausto Pirelli’s uncle,’ Teresa explained. ‘Sparks flying there all right. They think Fausto’s being moved to Brixton. They send the real naughties there.’
‘All this fuss about Fausto,’ Carlo said scornfully, ‘He knows nothing about politics. He’s all hot air. Come to think of it.’ He nodded his head towards the uncle. ‘How did he slip through the net himself? If they took your dad?’
Teresa shrugged, eyes still on Fausto’s aerated uncle. ‘What’s the matter with the stupid bugger?’ she snapped suddenly. ‘I’d rather know Dad and Stevie were in Brixton than—’ She stopped, struggling to control herself. I squeezed her hand.
Carlo looked round at her and said softly, ‘You all right, Teresa?’
She nodded hard. ‘Have to be.’
Carlo suddenly pulled her close to him, his arm round her shoulder.
The air was cooling, the street full of shadow now. People were starting to drift hungrily home. There were cooking smells in the air from houses near by.
‘Ciao, Carlo,’ Teresa said, pulling away rather carelessly from him.
‘Ciao.’ He raised his hand, watching her. Suddenly it was as clear as day to me. Any idiot could have seen from the smile he gave her what he felt for her except, quite obviously, Teresa herself.
I don’t remember you talking about him before,’ I said as we began the walk back with the family.
‘Carlo? I’ve known him years. I must’ve mentioned him, haven’t I? The family are always there at Mass. He works in the terrazzo trade with his dad – laying floors and that. We used to do Italian classes at the church as well. I s’pose he was just part of the furniture.’
‘He looks absolutely gorgeous,’ I said, trying to raise a laugh in her.
‘I s’pose he is.’ Teresa sounded offhand, her mind elsewhere. ‘Says he wants to join up but he’s not sure how they’ll treat him in the British army.’
Giovanna was chatting away on the other side of her, getting no reply. ‘Uncle Marco says I can go to the park on Sunday with Adelina and Maria.’ She gave a little skip. ‘Just girls. Just me. Not Tony or Luke!’
I tried to answer Giovanna’s babble since Teresa so obviously wasn’t paying any attention. When we got to Gooch Street the shops had long closed, the blinds wound in, and the air was full of the smell from the brewery.
‘I’ve been so stupid,’ Teresa suddenly burst out, making me jump. Her face was fierce. ‘All that matters is my family. I’m going to do everything, everything I can for them.’
‘D’you know I’ve always envied you your family?’
‘Have you?’
She’d never seen it up till now. They’d always just been there too, like air.
The days passed still bringing no news for any of us, not of my father, nor Micky Spini. Since there was no choice in the matter we kept on doing what we had to do, day in, day out.
Very early one morning when I was barely out of bed and Mom certainly wasn’t, there was a great banging on the front door. Still in my nightdress I snatched up the crocheted blanket from a chair and flung it round me as I sped into the hall. Dad! was my first illogical thought.
Gladys was talking before I’d got the door properly open.
‘You’d better get yourselves ready for a shock!’ she informed the street at the top of her voice.
I was confronted by her and Molly, both already dressed in enormous frocks, baggy as potato sacks and covered with splodges of coloured flowers. Gladys was holding Molly tightly by the arm as if she might be of a mind to take off.
‘Come in,’ I said as they steamed past me though the hall, Gladys flicking the blackout curtain by the door out of the way as if it’d personally insulted her. She was off again before I’d got the door shut.
‘Right goings on.’ She dragged poor Molly along with her. ‘And then what do I find?’
‘Sit down,’ I said. ‘I’ll get Mom.’
‘You’d better do that,’ Gladys called after me sanctimoniously.
Mom was no longer sick nowadays, but she still found it devilishly hard to shift herself out of bed of a morning and I had trouble rousing her. She rolled over and looked blearily at me. ‘Gladys Bender? What the heck does she want this time of day?’
‘She says we’re in for a shock.’
Her face tightened immediately. Victor. News about Victor, and already she was half out of bed, twisted round too quickly and winced. Then she tutted, relaxed. What did Gladys Bender know about anything?
When we got down Gladys didn’t even give her a chance to open her mouth. She propelled herself out of her chair and point
ed at Molly, who was sitting hanging her head.
‘It’s not you should be coming down, it’s that brother of yours!’
‘Sssh,’ Mom said tiredly, flapping a hand as if to shoo away the noise.
‘This one ’ere’s in the family way and your Len’s the Jack Rabbit that got ’er that way. So what’ve you got to say about that then?’ She just managed to fold her arms over her mountainous bosoms. In the light from the window I could see her specs were all smears.
We hadn’t got anything at all to say. Not a thing for quite a few seconds.
‘No,’ Mom got out eventually, any wind she’d had in her own sails expelled completely. ‘That can’t be right. Molly, that’s not true, is it?’
‘Days it’s been going on now. She’s off her food, sick every morning. She’s ’ad a go already today, isn’t that right, Moll?’ Gladys leaned over her, shouting.
Molly lifted her head and you could see from her face she wasn’t feeling any too well. Her normally pink cheeks were white and her hair was hanging lank and straight.
‘But it can’t be Lenny,’ Mom stuttered, blushing heavily. ‘Surely he hasn’t been . . .?’ She was looking at me and the blood rose in my cheeks. ‘Genie?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Genie – you knew all about this, didn’t you?’
‘I never! I never knew Molly was expecting!’
‘What’s been going on?’ Mom was shrieking at me.
‘What d’you think’s been going on?’ Gladys retorted. ‘My Molly’s got a bun in the oven that’s what—’ She tapped Molly heavily on the shoulder. ‘And it didn’t get there by itself.’
‘Well it’s not my fault, I wasn’t even here,’ Mom said. ‘How was I supposed to know what they’ve been up to? You should keep your daughter under control. I can’t be watching Len every moment of the day. There’s a war on – I’ve got a job to do!’
