Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  As they emerged into the sunshine again, Sara glimpsed the Seward-Scotts climbing into a large black Bentley waiting at a side gate. The sleek, polished car moved off with a becapped driver at the wheel and the mine owner and his wife marooned on the back seat, looking aloof and disinterested. It was as if they had been attending a quite different event, cordoned off from the rest of the congregation, Sara thought. That was the kind of hat she wanted, Sara decided, thinking of Lady Seward-Scott’s emerald-green one, but she did not feel any envy for the woman as she sped away with her stern husband.

  ‘There’s tea in the hall,’ Aunt Ida explained, ‘but I want to get home to get the dinner on. You don’t mind missing it, do you? Uncle Alfred will be home shortly.’

  Sara curbed her feelings of curiosity and they trouped off in the direction of the village.

  But Uncle Alfred did not appear shortly, despite Aunt Ida’s constant glances towards her array of clocks. She spent the rest of the morning busying herself about her small, neat kitchen, preparing the vegetables, checking on the sizzling joint of roast beef in the oven and mixing up batter for Yorkshire puddings. Sara thought her aunt seemed happiest when ruling her own domestic empire, and the juicy aromas filling the warm house confirmed her competence as a cook.

  Sara debated whether to slip out of the house for a wander around the town, but Ida set her to laying the table in the dining-room with all the best china and cutlery and then to stirring a thick custard to top a massive trifle. With that done, Ida allowed them a welcome cup of tea. Finally, one o’clock chimed on the small grandfather clock on the landing and Sara wondered when lunch would begin. The tantalising smells wafting out of the kitchen were making her stomach growl.

  ‘It’s ten minutes fast,’ Aunt Ida told Sara as if she had spoken her query aloud. All the same, Ida went to glance out of the parlour window to see if her husband was in sight.

  When one o’clock struck simultaneously in the hallway and parlour, Marina was called in off the street to wash and tidy. Colin materialised from the back lane to fetch scraps to feed his dogs.

  ‘Mind you give yourself a good scrub before dinner,’ Ida warned him. He gave a surly affirmative and retreated into the yard without another word.

  Sara watched her older cousin from the open back door, round-shouldered in his tight jacket that strained at the seams around his armpits. He looked ill-at-ease under his grubby cap, a great lump of a youth who did not seem to know where to put his massive hands or over-large, dirty boots. In comparison, his dogs were lean and swift in their movements, alert and aggressive to sound or touch, inquisitive and softly padding.

  Colin turned to catch her eyeing him. ‘What you staring at?’ he asked with suspicion. Sara flushed.

  ‘Nothing,’ she assured quickly. ‘Hello, Gypsy.’ She reached out for the friendlier of the two skinny hounds. The dog sniffed at her, hoping for food. She patted its bony head. ‘Have you had a nice run this morning?’

  ‘Aye,’ Colin answered for the dog, ‘she’s been with Adamson - the trainer. Coming on canny. Adamson says Gypsy’ll be a better runner than Flash when she’s bigger. Got more brains,’ Colin said, his lugubrious face lifting in a half-smile.

  Sara nodded, seeing the tenseness in his hunched figure relax a fraction. Then Aunt Ida’s voice came shrill from the parlour.

  ‘Father’s at the top of the street! Quickly now!’

  Colin’s look darted to the door as if some avenging spirit were about to sweep through it. His face went as blank and secretive as shuttered windows.

  Marina came flying down the stairs. ‘Daddy’s here! Daddy’s here!’

  ‘Get washed this minute!’ Ida ordered her stepson as she scurried into the kitchen to reinspect her steaming vegetables. Sara felt her insides churn with nervousness at the behaviour of the Cummingses, so that by the time Uncle Alfred threw open his front door and swept in like some conquering dictator, she, too, was tongue-tied with apprehension.

  Rosa Dimarco stood outside St Teresa’s watching two small girls having their photograph taken. She was reminded of her own first communion, when she had been the centre of family attention. Her parents kept a photograph on the sideboard of a wide-eyed girl with a short, dark fringe peeping from under a veil, an innocent in a long white dress and white gloves, an ornate cross on her flat chest. Rosa Dimarco, aged eight. Half her life time ago, Rosa recalled with a sigh and smiled at the young girls preening with importance, as her mother handed them small gifts of sugared almonds. The next important event at St Teresa’s would be her sister’s marriage, Rosa thought, and lately the talk among the women of the family had been only of Domenica’s forthcoming July wedding. When would it be her turn? she wondered impatiently, falling in behind her mother and elder sister as they discussed the elaborate arrangements yet again.

  ‘Has Papa asked Uncle Davide to play his accordion yet?’ Domenica asked, flicking back her well-groomed, light brown hair. ‘And has he organised the band? There must be plenty of dancing. Isn’t that right, Rosa?’ she laughed excitedly at her sister.

  ‘Yes,’ Rosa nodded bashfully. Domenica seemed so grown-up and sophisticated these days in her flowery dress with the large sash belt and frilled waist over her hips. Her shoes were high-heeled with ankle straps, and round earrings adorned her earlobes below her short, bobbed hair. Sunderland had changed Domenica from a gauche, unfashionable village girl into a young woman engaged to be married to Pasquale Perella, heir to two ice-cream shops on Wearside.

  ‘There will be plenty of dancing,’ their mother smiled, her tight black bun of hair nodding in agreement. ‘Don’t pester your father about it - he has enough to organise as it is. And Father Giuseppe will be visiting next week.’

  The visiting Italian chaplain would be coming to check that the marriage arrangements were going according to plan, Rosa thought. He would take mass in their flat above the shop and counsel Domenica on the importance of motherhood. It would be the second time in three months the austere priest had paid them a visit in the remote outpost of Whitton Grange. Last time it had been to see to the baptising of baby Linda, newly born to Rosa’s eldest brother Paolo and his shy wife Sylvia. It had been a great family occasion with a sit-down lunch for thirty in the Dimarcos’ cafe and Italian friends and family had travelled from as far away as Glasgow.

  An appearance from Father Giuseppe would mean her brother Joe would have to behave himself for a whole day, Rosa thought with amusement. As if her other brother had read her mind, he came tearing past on his motorcycle, sending up dust from the road. Somehow, he had managed to attach a drum of ice-cream to his vehicle like a sidecar. He went past tooting and waving, an impudent grin spread beneath a huge pair of goggles.

  ‘That boy!’ Anna Dimarco coughed from the dust and lapsed into her village dialect. ‘How did I nurture such a devil? Always so noisy on that terrible machine.’

  Domenica and Rosa exchanged amused glances, knowing how their mother doted on her middle son.

  ‘At least he’s off to sell ice-cream somewhere,’ Domenica remarked in English, understanding but seldom speaking the dialect peculiar to her parents’ district of Cassino in Central Italy.

  As her mother and sister reverted to their previous discussion about the wedding, Rosa watched Joe disappear towards the dene and felt envy at his freedom to go where he pleased. This rare trip to church was one of the few ways she escaped the strictures of home since she had left school and even now she was accompanied by her mother and sister. She seldom ventured beyond the house or shop and since her sister-in-law Sylvia had given birth to baby Linda, Rosa had been in charge of her two-year old nephew Peter and rarely got to serve in the cafe anymore. Now her sister Domenica had returned from helping look after the young family of a sick cousin in Sunderland and the small terraced house, containing the ice-cream shop, felt as if it would burst with relations.

  But Joe escaped and stayed away all day long; where, Rosa did not know. Their father put up with his waywardness so long
as he returned with his ice-cream churn empty and handed over the takings. Then Joe would roar off to meet his friends again, like the jovial and ginger-naked Pat Slattery or skinny, pale-faced Raymond Kirkup.

  I have no friends, Rosa thought with regret. The girls she had known at school had left to go into service in the south of England and she had lost touch with them all. Not that she had ever played with them much outside of school, because she had always been needed to help at home or look after her baby brother, Bobby, while her mother worked in the shop.

  ‘Smile, Rosa,’ Domenica’s bright voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You’re supposed to be happy, thinking about my wedding.’ The older girl slipped an arm through her sister’s.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rosa grinned, ‘I am.’

  ‘Well, here’s something to cheer you up. Pasquale’s compare is looking for a wife and he’s extremely handsome,’ Domenica winked. Rosa blushed at the implication she might be interested in Pasquale’s best man, or he in her.

  ‘Who is he?’ Anna quizzed her daughter, as they turned into Pit Street, her small brown eyes full of interest.

  ‘Emilio Fella,’ Domenica replied. ‘He’s working for Mr Perella -I met him at a dance at the fascio - very charming.’

  Rosa had tired of hearing Domenica go on about the social gatherings at the Italian club and the trips to the seaside the fascio had organised. But she was interested to hear more of the handsome Emilio.

  ‘I’ve not heard of him,’ her mother interrupted, her neat features frowning. ‘Who are the Fellas and where are they from?’

  ‘They’re distantly related to the Perellas, I think.’ Domenica gave a vague wave of her hand. ‘Emilio and Pasquale fought together in Abyssinia. Now Emilio’s helping run a billiard hall in Seaburn.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Anna’s voice was impatient, ‘but where’re the Fellas from back home?’

  Domenica gave Rosa a heavenwards look behind her mother’s back and Rosa’s grimace was sympathetic. Their mother’s tone implied there would be stiff questioning about the mysterious Emilio.

  ‘Valvoni region, I think,’ Domenica replied, adding quickly, ‘he’s not been over from Italy long - but Mr Perella has given him responsibility of the billiard hall already.’

  ‘A stranger,’ Anna clucked, her look dubious. ‘We shall need to find out more about this Emilio Fella. It’s most odd of the Perellas to allow a stranger to be Pasquale’s compare.’

  Domenica began to insist, ‘He’s not a stranger, he’s—’ But her mother cut her short.

  ‘Look, there’s your grandmother still peeling vegetables,’ Anna pointed ahead. ‘Stop her before she skins every potato in sight.’

  Domenica’s protest subsided as they drew near to the ice-cream parlour on the corner of Pit Street and Mill Terrace. Their grandmother sat on the pavement outside, lapping up the spring sunshine like a somnolent cat, a huge bowl of white-fleshed potatoes cradled on her black-skirted knees. Her crinkled face, under a sweep of grey hair, broke into a smile as they approached.

  ‘Nonna Maria,’ Rosa ran up to the elderly woman, ‘let me finish those.’

  ‘No, no, my little kitten,’ her grandmother answered in her Italian patois, shooing her away kindly, ‘they are all done. You go and see to Peter, he’s been crying for you ever since you left. Sylvia can’t comfort the poor little thing and he won’t let her feed the baby.’

  Rosa smiled with satisfaction to think she was so indispensable to her nephew. She might be short of local friends, but she was an important member of the Dimarco family and she felt a warm security in their midst.

  ‘I’ll go and find him,’ she smiled. She darted ahead of the other women through the shop. Already there were customers sitting at the marble-topped tables, nibbling ice-cream or sipping pop, though it would be after lunch before large numbers of villagers would flock into the parlour to pass their Sunday afternoon. Rosa had seen them come and taste the delights of their homemade ice-cream, whole families dressed in their Sunday best and young girls in groups eyeing the single boys. A place of courtship and romance for so many, Rosa thought restlessly, while she was hidden upstairs looking after the family.

  Her brother Paolo smiled at her as he brought out a tray of hot drinks from behind the counter.

  ‘You’re needed upstairs,’ he indicated with a nod, his broad face amused.

  ‘I’m going,’ Rosa assured him and dived round the counter. In the back-shop she halted abruptly at the sight of her father sitting drinking coffee with the impassive police officer, Sergeant Turnbull. Turnbull was a regular visitor and not averse to a game of cards after the shop closed for the night, but Rosa stopped shyly at sight of him.

  ‘Rosa!’ Arturo Dimarco greeted his daughter with a broad smile. ‘Fetch Signor Turnbull another cup of coffee.’

  ‘No, I must be on my way.’ The fair-haired policeman rose and straightened his jacket. He reached for his cap. ‘Just been hearing all about the forthcoming wedding,’ he said to Rosa, looking her over with appraising blue-grey eyes. ‘Over thirty people expected, your father tells me. You Italians know how to celebrate, I’ll give you that.’

  Rosa nodded, tongue-tied. She did not like the way he studied her whenever she came into the room; she always felt uncomfortable in the tall man’s presence.

  ‘Signor Turnbull,’ Arturo rose regally, immaculate in starched white shirt, striped tie and waistcoat above his gleaming white apron. ‘You would do us a great honour if you were able to attend our daughter Domenica’s wedding - you and your wife.’

  The boyish-faced policeman lost his serious poise for a moment as he gawped at the cafe proprietor. Rosa saw her father’s strong-jawed face beaming in anticipation. Her heart sank at the invitation, certain he had just thought of the idea on the spur of the moment, carried away with bonhomie towards his distinguished guest on this bright spring Sunday.

  ‘That would be most kind,’ Turnbull grunted, flushing above his dark blue uniform. ‘But you have enough to feed as it is.’

  ‘You are our friend, Signore.’ Arturo spread his hands in a generous gesture. ‘We do not count the cost on our daughter’s wedding day! So you will come, yes?’

  ‘Well, um, thank you. The missus will be delighted, I’m sure,’ he muttered and made swiftly for the back door. Regaining his poise as he donned his cap, the sergeant became businesslike.

  ‘Remember to have a word with that son of yours about riding his motorcycle over the crossing.’

  ‘Bene, Signor Turnbull,’ Arturo nodded and showed him out with a firm handshake.

  ‘Such a good man,’ he told Rosa as the policeman left, ‘and he takes such an interest in all our family. He asks after each one of you. That is a good man,’ he repeated.

  ‘What was he saying about Joe, Papa?’ Rosa asked.

  Her father gave an impatient grunt. ‘Making trouble for the Sergeant again - riding his motorcycle where he shouldn’t. Next time Signor Turnbull will take it away and it will serve him right. See how much your brother Joseph likes pulling a cart like a horse - like your brother Paolo had to do before we had the shop!’

  Rosa saw the signs of her father’s rising temper, slow to boil but red-hot when roused and no one could annoy him quite so consistently as her brother Joe. Swiftly she changed the subject.

  ‘I’ll go and help Sylvia upstairs.’

  Arturo relaxed at his daughter’s eager face and patted her dark head in affection.

  ‘Bene, little kitten,’ he smiled, ‘Peter cries for you all morning - off you go.’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Rosa skipped towards the staircase in obedience.

  Chapter Six

  Sara escaped from 13 South Parade as soon as the washing up was done and her Uncle Alfred had fallen asleep in his chair beside the parlour fire. The fire blazed on this warm afternoon, making the stuffy room more airless than usual and her uncle’s alcoholic snores rumbled rhythmically with the gentle tick of clocks.

  She was still shaking from the or
deal of this first Sunday lunch with the Cummingses. Uncle Alfred’s original boozy good humour had evaporated as soon as Colin had asked him for some money.

  ‘You’ll get nowt till you get rid of them dogs and find yoursel’ a job,’ he grumbled.

  ‘I’ll never get rid o’ them!’ Colin’s reply was stubborn.

  ‘If there’s war there’ll be jobs,’ his father continued as if he had not spoken, ‘then you’ll have no excuse for hanging around like the idle bugger you are.’

  Sara cringed as her uncle grew expansive on the subject. ‘Aye, we’ll show the krauts who’s boss - the English bulldog. War’d be good for the lazy devils who won’t work around here. Spot of army discipline to put some backbone into them, ‘stead of scrounging off the dole. Aye, a short sharp war to send the Hun packing mightn’t be a bad thing. It’ll come,’ he predicted, shovelling potato and gravy into his mouth, ‘they’ve already made plans to take on more lads at the Eleanor - we’re gearing up for extra production.’

  Sara thought how horrified her father would have been to hear Alfred talk about war, his tone almost gleeful. She looked around at the others. Colin’s head was down as he ate, dodging his father’s criticisms. Marina played with her food without interest, while Ida sat tense but said nothing. They’re all afraid of him, Sara thought with sudden clarity - even Marina was withdrawn.

  ‘Me dad said there should never be another war with Germany,’ Sara piped up, finding her voice at last. ‘Not after the Great War. He said no man should have to go through all that again and if we’d learnt anything by it, then it’s that fighting never gets us anything but misery.’ Sara faltered at her uncle’s derisory look. Ida’s face was anxious at her defiance and Colin had stopped his steady munching to stare at her. ‘He used to say that to our Tom, any road,’ she faltered, her throat drying.

  ‘Well, he was wrong!’ Alfred thumped the table with his fist clenched around a knife. ‘You would think we’d lost the Great War the way men like Pallister complained about it. They make me sick, these bleeding-heart conchies.’