The Italian Chapel

by Philip Paris

  ‘Ship in the bottle,’ muttered Aldo to himself. ‘That’s what you want my old friend, the ship in the bottle.’

  The old man removed the pipe, his face breaking into a huge toothless grin. He held a hand to one ear, so Aldo spoke loudly.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

  The man nodded enthusiastically and started to speak, but with such a strong accent that Aldo had no idea what he was saying.

  ‘You have a lovely cottage and I have only one thing left of all the skilfully-made items brought from the camp today, but it is the best of the lot.’

  Aldo opened one of the rucksacks and launched into his selling mode.

  ‘Several people have expressed great interest in this exquisite item, but I have refused to sell it until I believed it was going to the right home.’

  With a flourish Aldo pulled out the ship in the bottle.

  The old man stood up, walked over and took hold of the bottle, which he examined closely. He suddenly jabbered excitedly, accompanied by a big toothless smile and much nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Aldo. ‘I’m glad you agree. And I will do you a special price. Only four shillings.’

  The man looked delighted and suddenly walked back to the house, clutching the bottle in one hand and his pipe in the other. Aldo was caught off guard and by the time he followed, his latest customer had entered the building and closed the front door. Aldo stood there, rather at a loss.

  After several minutes Aldo started muttering to himself.

  ‘How can it be taking him so long? He must have his money buried under the floorboards. I’ve heard old people do that sort of thing.’

  Finally the door opened and the man stood in the entrance with a live chicken in his hands. He had tied the legs together and thrust the bird upside down at Aldo, who grabbed it without thinking.

  ‘No, no. You don’t understand. Not a chicken. Four shillings. Four shillings!’

  The old man nodded twice, waved as if they were best friends parting, and stepped quickly back, closing the door firmly. Aldo looked down at the flapping bird with growing horror, not quite sure how things had gone so horribly wrong.

  Later that evening Aldo was on his bed, his face a mask of righteous indignation. Domenico, sitting opposite, rocked back and forth, his laughter filling the hut so that men looked on bemused.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, Domenico,’ hissed Aldo, wishing his friend would not draw attention to them. He had already spotted Dino and Carlo looking over from their card game. ‘I had to pay Giovannini out of my own pocket. I couldn’t give him eight-five per cent of a chicken. I have my reputation to think of. It cost me nearly four shillings. But you should be happy because he donated the money to the chapel fund.’

  ‘Aldo,’ said Domenico, wiping away a tear, ‘that’s the best laugh I’ve had in a long time. I think that old man was a lot wiser than he made out. But what did you do with the chicken?

  Aldo looked suddenly sheepish and did not answer.

  ‘Is it in the cooking pot already?’

  Aldo pulled a rucksack from under his bed and carefully opened the flap. A chicken’s head popped out and looked up at Domenico who, for a moment, couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. The creature and the man stared at each other and it was difficult to say which wore the most startled expression. It was all too much for Domenico and what composure he had gained was suddenly lost as he slapped his thigh in delight. Rolling peals of laughter echoed around the corrugated iron walls and made men smile.

  ‘I knew you would react like this,’ said Aldo in a forced whisper. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone. They’ll all think I’ve gone soft in the head. But I couldn’t bring myself to kill it. I thought perhaps I could keep it for eggs. Fresh eggs. Just think. Everyone will want fresh eggs.’

  With great tenderness Aldo pushed the chicken’s head back down, closed the flap and pushed the bag under his bed. Domenico was wiping tears from both eyes.

  ‘Oh Aldo, there’s hope for you yet. However, I must admit, although I thought eventually a bird may soften your heart … I didn’t think it would be a chicken!’

  Aldo sat in silence until Domenico had finished. It took a long time.

  ‘Well, I would like to know what you would’ve done,’ he said petulantly. ‘Anyway, what are those papers?’ He attempted to change the subject, indicating with his head several large sheets spread on Domenico’s bed.

  ‘I’m working on designs for the chapel.’

  Domenico had been busy and there was a series of drawings showing objects at different angles, such as the altar, tabernacle and holy water stoup, each with measurements written neatly by the side. There were various sketches of how the plasterboard could be painted to imitate stonework, with areas left blank for paintings. There were diagrams of the Nissen hut showing the position of the windows and with the floor area marked out to scale for the vestry, chancel and the school. It represented a vast amount of planning and thought.

  ‘Well, you may have a cruel sense of humour but you certainly have a skill for drawing,’ said Aldo, looking through the papers. ‘Are you going to design all of it?’

  ‘These are just roughs. I’m trying to create a master design to which other plans can be fashioned. But yes, I think you can only have one designer for a project like this or it will be a case of too many cooks. We ran out of wood before we had finished the frame, so work has stopped for now. However, the bigger problem will be sourcing plasterboard.’

  ‘How do you plan to get that? You won’t find plasterboard on any blockship.’

  ‘I’m going to ask Padre Giacomo if he will speak to Major Buckland. See if he can help.’

  ‘I think the war will be over before your chapel is built.’

  ‘That may be. But men working on the chapel have already developed a bond that goes beyond that of the football team or the music groups.’

  ‘Your higher purpose?’

  ‘Not mine, Aldo.’

  Aldo sighed and handed back the papers.

  ‘It’ll be lights out soon.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ replied Domenico, putting the sheets into order. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’

  17

  Aldo was up the next morning even before it was properly light, making a rough chicken coop just outside the hut, using some of the wood pile as a windbreak. He had heard that, years earlier, a fierce storm had blown tens of thousands of chickens out to sea, along with many coops. He looked nervously at the sky.

  When he had more time he would make a proper coop, or at least would ask one of the carpenters to help. Most likely, he would pay the man in cigarettes to do the whole job. Aldo wasn’t quite sure what chickens ate but thought Dino would know. He looked down with affection at the chicken then hurried off to wash before breakfast.

  That morning there was an unexpected incident in the mess hall when a large number of men refused to leave until they had been given more information about their status following Italy’s capitulation. Although they had unofficially been granted more freedom, this was more to do with being on an island than a change in their position as POWs.

  Their frustration boiled over in a mini revolt, catching many Italians by surprise, and it took all of Major Buckland’s powers of persuasion to get everyone to start that day’s work. However, Major Buckland had no answers and feelings of resentment continued.

  Later that week, Aldo and Buttapasta could be found unloading bags of cement from a barge. The Lamb Holm blockmaking yard used the grey powder at a phenomenal rate. There were four other yards, two on Burray and two on mainland Orkney, and between them they produced around 300 five-ton blocks every day. It was a colossal output. Fortunately, the contractors had discovered that seawater could be used successfully in the process, as fresh water had to be pumped over from mainland Orkney.

  There were about thirty Italians involved in the task of unloading the barge that particular morning, carrying one bag at a time a
nd loading it on to a truck, which would set off when full to be quickly replaced by another. Aldo stumbled along miserably beside Buttapasta, who seemed completely unaffected by the weight on his shoulder and broke into little bouts of whistling, much to Aldo’s annoyance.

  ‘I suppose you must be in your element,’ said Aldo, his bag hugged tightly to his chest.

  ‘In my element?’ asked Buttapasta cheerfully.

  ‘Being surrounded by all this cement.’

  ‘Poor Aldo,’ said Buttapasta laughing. ‘You’re not cut out for heavy physical effort, are you? Still, you can watch others work this afternoon, playing football.’

  The two men reached the truck and Aldo leant against it to catch his breath.

  ‘That’s the one bright thing this week,’ he said after a few moments.

  ‘Why is that, my young friend? I didn’t know you were such a fan of the game.’

  ‘I’m not, but I’ve been organising bets on the outcome of the match. The locals and the Balfour Beatty men believe the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders team will win but, of course, they haven’t seen our boys play,’ said Aldo, moving to one side because someone wanted to deposit their load. ‘I’ve been watching them practise.’

  ‘They’re good, I’ll give you that, but I hope you’re not going to lose all that money you’ve spent so long making.’ Aldo grinned but did not reply. ‘Come on,’ said Buttapasta, leading the way back to the pier.

  The Orkney weather was kind to the footballers and the afternoon was bright with only a light breeze. The pitch, set up in a field nearby, was surrounded by hundreds of excited spectators, made up of men from the Italian and Balfour Beatty camps plus civilians and Orkney families. There was a loudspeaker system and the commentator, a British corporal, was positioned on a small stand where he could see everything clearly.

  ‘We are delighted today to welcome a team from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, who will be playing an Italian team from Camp 60,’ said the commentator, his voice crackling over the speakers.

  The players entered the pitch to enthusiastic applause and started to run around, kicking balls between themselves to warm up. Eventually, the two teams settled down and the respective captains joined the referee in the middle of the pitch. Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched the small coin as it travelled through the air, as if they could alter the outcome by staring at it. The referee and the two captains looked down at the ground, the men shook hands and the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders team kicked off.

  * * *

  There could hardly have been a greater contrast between the noise and tension at the football match and the stillness of the chapel, where Domenico worked quietly. More wood had been found and the framework lining the walls had been completed. Domenico was now putting together the frame for the internal stud wall, which would separate the vestry from the chancel. The door at the end of the hut opened and Padre Giacomo entered.

  ‘Domenico. I wondered if you might be here. Not interested in the match?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind it. But the chance to have a few hours of complete quiet is very appealing.’

  ‘I understand. Not an opportunity to be missed. I’m sorry to disturb your peace. I see you’ve nearly finished the framework,’ said Padre Giacomo.

  ‘With help from others.’

  ‘And I have some news …’

  ‘The plasterboard?’ asked Domenico hopefully.

  ‘It should be here next week.’

  ‘That’s excellent, Padre. Thank you for your help and please thank Major Buckland for me.’

  ‘He’s certainly behind the idea. We are lucky to have him as camp commander.’

  A comfortable silence ensued. Padre Giacomo studied the building with interest, though there was little to look at. He was carrying the small satchel that had seemed to be by his side ever since he had arrived at Camp 60.

  ‘I have something I’m not quite sure what to do with and yet my heart tells me it should somehow be part of the chapel. I would appreciate your thoughts, Domenico.’

  The priest opened his satchel and took out a tightly rolled-up cloth. When he untied the string and unfolded it, Domenico whistled at the sight of a large Italian flag.

  ‘You brought that from Italy, Padre?’ he asked, both astounded and impressed.

  ‘When I was captured I was tending to sick and injured men who had been left behind in a field hospital attached to a camp in Soddu. When the British were virtually at the gates I sent a man to save the camp flag and I was able to stuff it into my satchel without anyone seeing. One of the steadfast characteristics of the British is they are always reluctant to search a priest, even one belonging to the enemy.’

  ‘You want it in the chapel?’

  ‘I thought I would hang it in the vestry when it’s finished.’

  ‘A little piece of Italy on foreign soil,’ said Domenico.

  The priest rolled up the material and put it back into the satchel, replacing his Bible on top.

  ‘I hear the men have started a chapel fund?’ said Padre Giacomo.

  ‘Yes, I was greatly moved to learn of that, padre. A percentage of everything spent in the canteen shop is also being set aside for the chapel fund. The money will be essential to acquire the things we cannot make.’

  The two men chatted contentedly about their favourite subject, bouncing ideas off each other. They both had a detailed knowledge of religious icons and knew what could be achieved … with the right materials.

  By the time the whistle blew to indicate the start of the second half of the football match, it was clear to everyone that the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders team were outclassed. The commentator had been almost beside himself with excitement from the first kick of the ball and his chatter had been continuous.

  The crowd were hoarse from screaming but as one of the Italians dribbled his way skilfully past several defenders the noise became deafening. As he popped the ball, with apparent ease, into the back of the net the spectators could be forgiven for thinking the corporal with the microphone was Italian.

  ‘It’s a goal! It’s a goal!’ he screamed.

  By the time the referee blew the whistle for the end of the match the Italians had won 4–1.

  The following week, Domenico, Aldo and Buttapasta were travelling together on one of the railway wagons that transported cured concrete blocks from the block-making yard to the start of barrier number two.

  ‘Don’t you wish this train was going all the way to Italy?’ said Aldo.

  ‘Now there’s a nice thought … to step off the train on to good Italian soil and drink good Italian wine,’ said Buttapasta.

  ‘Meet good Italian women,’ added Aldo.

  ‘Perhaps one day soon. What do you think, Domenico?’

  Aldo spoke before Domenico could answer.

  ‘I think he wants to stay here so that he can build his chapel.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Domenico, thoughtfully. ‘I am only here because the war is continuing, which is a terrible reason. And I want to get home like everyone else. Yet while there is a war, and we are stuck on this island, I can think of no better use for a man’s time than to work on the chapel. But you’ll be a rich man when you finally return Aldo.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Buttapasta, ‘just how much money did you make from gambling on the outcome of the football match?’

  Aldo smiled his boyish grin.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s coarse to discuss money? That’s your trouble, Buttapasta, you’re not refined like me. I reckon it comes from spending too many years with cement.’

  ‘You shouldn’t mock a man’s vocation.’ Buttapasta suddenly grabbed Aldo and started to move him towards the edge of the train. Aldo was completely powerless to stop him and hung on to Buttapasta’s jacket.

  ‘No. I like cement, honestly. Some of my closest friends are made of cement.’

  As the train trundled along its journey, those standing on wagons further down the line could see a large man holding so
meone over the edge and hear the increasingly frantic shouts of the smaller figure.

  The train slowed down as it neared the barrier and blew its whistle in three sharp bursts. Men jumped off even before it had completely stopped and quickly gathered in small groups. A Balfour Beatty man walked up to them.

  ‘I need four men to go to the workshop and the rest of you can follow me,’ he bellowed above the noise around him.

  Aldo was near the back and as soon as the Balfour Beatty man turned around he quietly slipped away in the other direction. Moments later he entered a building that housed a huge diesel generator.

  He stood just inside the door and looked around for the man he needed. It wasn’t long before the very person he was looking for appeared from behind some of the equipment. Bill Johnstone was responsible for running the power station and although his home was on mainland Orkney he lived on Lamb Holm during the week.

  ‘Mr Bill,’ shouted Aldo.

  ‘Hello, Aldo. How are you today?’ said the man, walking over.

  ‘I’m okay thank you. I hope you and Mrs Bill are well?’

  ‘Oh aye, we’ve nothing to complain about.’

  ‘I wondered if …’ Aldo hesitated, but he pulled a small bottle out of his pocket nonetheless.

  ‘Yes, I know what you’re after, another bottle of switch oil. What the devil do you do with it, Aldo?’

  ‘Well, you know Mr Bill, we Italians like to grease our hair. It’s part of our culture. And your pure oil is the best thing we can get on the island.’

  The man looked at Aldo with a surprised expression for a moment. He liked the young Italian, who often stuck his head in the door for a few moments to chat and sometimes to ask for oil.

  ‘Well, it’s not something I have a need for,’ he said patting his own head. ‘Come on, lad, give me your bottle then you had better get going or you’ll be in trouble for being in here and not where you should be.’

  That afternoon Buttapasta, Domenico and Aldo were walking back to camp with about a dozen other men. The weather had turned overcast and as they approached the camp entrance the rain that had threatened to fall for the last hour began to come down in large, slow drops. The men, heads down, quickened their pace for they knew this heralded a downpour. It was Buttapasta who shouted the warning.