‘Papa…’Joe turned to his father and looked contrite. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was giving Pat Slattery a lift home and his mam asked us in for a bit chat.’
Arturo gave an impatient gesticulation. ‘His mamma! Are you now a Slattery not a Dimarco? Are you Irish not Italian, huh?’
‘I’m Durham born and bred,’ Joe answered, winking at Rosa, knowing the comment would infuriate his father. ‘Like Rosa here - and Domenica - and Bobby.’
‘Madonna! Don’t you forget you are a good Italian underneath the English, eh?’
‘Papa,’ Rosa intervened bravely. ‘Nonna Maria’s pasta is ready. Let’s go and eat.’
‘Umm, gnocchi!’ Joe exclaimed, kissing the end of his fingertips in delight. ‘I’m always a good Italian when it comes to food.’
‘Bene.’ His father grew calmer at the thought. ‘Come, my little pussycat,’ he said to Rosa, ‘let’s not keep Nonna and your mother waiting.’
He led them through the back-shop and up the dimly lit staircase to the flat above. The table was spread with a white cloth, the cutlery glinting in the artificial light and the rest of the family were seated, waiting for the steaming pasta to be served. Arturo called for Paolo to open some red wine and Rosa went to help her mother and Domenica serve out the food.
The intimate living-room, with the kitchen at one end, became fuggy with the smell of food and the press of bodies around the table. The chatter grew noisy as the wine and pasta were demolished and the men sat back, rosy-faced and mellow, to smoke their cigarettes. Rosa revelled in the cosy warmth of it all. At times like this she did not care if there was a world outside these homely walls.
Granny Maria dozed in her chair and Peter woke with the hubbub and came to sit on Rosa’s knee, yawning and trying to stay awake. Eventually Sylvia picked him from her lap and took him back to the bedroom which he shared with his parents and baby sister.
Rosa looked at her mother’s tired face. They would all be up early to help mix the ice-cream and prepare snacks for the pitmen coming off night shift. Paolo and Joe would wheel a barrow up to the pit gates to catch the tide of hungry and weary miners, selling them cigarettes and pies and the early morning newspapers that her father would fetch in his van from Whitton Station.
‘Let’s get Nonna to bed,’ Domenica nudged Rosa and they coaxed the old woman out of her seat and into the small backroom they shared over the back-shop. The narrow window was thrown open and a scent of honeysuckle drifted in from the white-washed yard below, where their mother’s pots of flowers stood in a tight cluster.
Later, with the sound of the men’s voices still rumbling beyond the door, Rosa sat up in the bed she shared with Domenica and whispered excitedly about the wedding.
‘Does Emilio Fella have a lass?’ Rosa asked shyly.
‘So you are interested?’ Domenica said gleefully, as she slipped out of her cotton dress and hung it carefully behind the door.
Rosa glanced away. ‘I was just asking,’ she mumbled.
Domenica pulled on her nightgown and began to brush out her short wavy hair.
‘Emilio Fella doesn’t have a lass,’ Domenica informed her. ‘Not a serious one anyway.’
‘What does that mean?’ Rosa’s interest in the mysterious Emilio was roused.
‘Well, Pasquale says he’s been seen at the pictures with a local girl, but it’s nothing serious. He’s not courting an Italian lass and that’s what counts isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I see,’ Rosa brightened. ‘And is he very handsome?’
‘Very,’ Domenica laughed. ‘If I hadn’t already met Pasquale…’
Rosa giggled, ‘Ssh, Nonna might hear you.’ Then she became dubious again. ‘But what about Mam? She didn’t seem to think much of the Fellas.’
‘Mamma doesn’t know anything about them,’ Domenica was dismissive. She climbed into bed beside her sister.
‘Exactly,’ Rosa worried. ‘So she’ll be against him from the start.’
‘Stop worrying.’ Domenica kissed her on the head like a child. ‘I’ll get Pasquale to do some investigating. I bet the Fellas are impeccable Italians with lots of land and no sons but Emilio to pass it on to.’
‘Pigs might fly,’ Rosa giggled again with excitement.
‘Yes - and lots of pigs.’ Domenica stifled her laughing as their grandmother stirred.
The girls turned back to back and snuggled down. Rosa drifted into sleep trying to imagine what it would be like living in an Italian village as the proud possessor of a herd of pigs. She hardly knew what life was like outside Pit Street, let alone beyond the horizon of Whitton Grange and County Durham, so how could she possibly imagine what Italy was like?
Still, Granny Maria talked about it longingly and her mother and sister-in-law Sylvia had been born and brought up there, so it couldn’t be that difficult to adapt, could it? she thought drowsily as sleep enveloped her.
Chapter Seven
‘And you’re to wash your own overall,’ Mrs Sergeant wheezed at Sara, ‘so keep it clean. You can start by sweeping the storeroom - you’ll find the brush and pan behind the door. I’ll call you if I need a hand in the front.’
Sara nodded, in awe of the large shopkeeper with the mop of white hair around her grey-skinned face. She had dark down on her cheeks and upper lip that gave her a masculine appearance, her square frame sexless in a vast starched white overall. Sara scurried into the back of the shop without a word.
She was halfway through sweeping the dusty storeroom with its stacked wooden crates of pop, tea chests and boxes of unpacked groceries, when the back door banged. A thin youth, swamped by a huge cap, came in whistling. When the cap was removed, Sara saw a lad with auburn hair and a pale face who looked a year or two her junior.
‘What time do you call this, Raymond Kirkup?’ Dolly Sergeant boomed from the shop. The boy pulled a face, then, noticing Sara, broke into a broad grin.
‘Morning, Mrs Sergeant - lovely day, isn’t it?’ he called back.
‘Get in here, this minute!’ his employer thundered and Raymond took off his jacket quickly, exchanging it for a work coat hanging on the door.
‘I can tell the Sergeant-Major is full of the joys of spring,’ Raymond whispered to Sara as he passed. ‘I’m Raymond, but I can’t stop.’
‘I’m Sara,’ she smiled back, thankful she would have an ally against the grumpy grocer. This must be Raymond, the footballer whose aunt, Mrs Ritson, she had spoken to yesterday, Sara realised.
Presently, her job done, Sara crept into the shop where Mrs Sergeant was instructing Raymond on his morning errands.
‘The lass can help you make up the parcels,’ she jerked her head at Sara. ‘Perhaps she can stop you getting them wrong for a change. I don’t want Mrs Naylor ringing up complaining you delivered Greek currants instead of Californian sultanas again.’ Mrs Sergeant gave him one of her severest looks.
‘No, Mrs Sergeant, I can’t think how such a terrible thing happened,’ Raymond answered, his thin face pained. But the mischievous look in his bright blue eyes showed Sara he was teasing the humourless woman.
‘Well, get on with it,’ she ordered with a fat finger.
‘Haway, Sara,’ he beckoned, ‘you read out what’s on the list and I’ll gan up the ladders.’
As she read out the names of the goods that had been ordered over the telephone by Mrs Sergeant’s more well-to-do patrons, Sara had time to look around the cramped, old-fashioned shop. From floor to ceiling, its shelves were stacked with tins of cocoa, corned beef, pears, syrup, baking powder, dusty packets of tapioca, teas and sugar, while brass-handled drawers hid explosive mixtures of curry powder, matches and cut plug for pipes. Under glass cases on the counter were displays of her finest boxes of biscuits; Nice and Cream Crackers, and a large selection of cigarettes, including packets of Players, the brand Tom had been smoking on his last visit home. Behind the counter a cold slab held neat parcels of butter wrapped in greaseproof paper and a side of pink bacon waiting to be carved by an anc
ient slicer.
‘Half a pound of - tea,’ Sara struggled to read the spidery writing.
‘What kind?’ Raymond asked from halfway up the ladder.
‘Ass - something,’ Sara blushed.
‘Assam!’ Mrs Sergeant barked, watching over them closely, despite the interruption of two customers.
‘Sorry,’ Sara stifled a giggle as she saw Raymond grin.
‘When you’re done,’ the shopkeeper said sternly, ‘you can make up some packs of sugar in the back.’
‘Yes, Mrs Sergeant,’ Sara answered meekly. This was worse than having her sister-in-law Mary bossing her around, she thought.
As Raymond escaped on his bicycle to make his deliveries, Sara was sent into the storeroom.
‘Use the royal blue paper for granulated and the dark blue for caster.’ Sara watched the woman’s quick, dexterous movements as she cut the correct size of paper and made it into a bag, pouring in a shovel of sugar and sealing it. The shop doorbell announced a customer and Sara was left puzzling over the art of packaging, while Dolly Sergeant went to answer it.
More intent on listening through the half-open door to Mrs Sergeant fulminating at the visitor over the new air-raid shelter being built in the school playground, Sara struggled to copy the regimented bags of sugar lined up at attention on the shop shelves.
‘… too far for me to walk to with my bad back.’
‘Yes, Dolly, but I suppose it makes sense to have it there for the bairns.’
Sugar began to seep from the bottom of the misshapen bag and spill on to the floor. Sara cursed inwardly and started again.
‘I can’t bear to think what a war would do to my business. It’s been bad enough these past few years having to run the place without Billy - and half the village out of work.’
‘Let’s pray it doesn’t come to war,’ the unseen woman answered. ‘Give me a twist of black bullets an’ all, Dolly, the bairn’s got a sore throat.’
‘On the account?’
‘Aye, I’ll settle up at the end of the week. You’ll be looking forward to the Carnival, then. First in the rhubarb jam last year, weren’t you, Dolly?’
Sara paused with scissors in hand at the mention of the Carnival. It must be a big event, she thought, everyone who had come into the shop that morning had talked about it, yet it was not until the end of the month.
‘Yes, but I don’t know if it’s worth it - I’ll not get away from the shop — I haven’t managed to go since my Billy died.’
‘That’s a shame and you being such a good jam maker. Could that young lad not mind the shop?’
‘Raymond!’ Dolly Sergeant expostulated. ‘I’d not leave him in charge of a pot of tea. Mind you, I’ve got a new lass started this morning, so if she’s any good… And as long as Raymond’s out the road - I’ll not stand for any nonsense while my back’s turned, I know what the young’uns are like these days.’
Sara, flushing with annoyance at Mrs Sergeant’s derogatory remark, heard the customer ask who the new girl was, but the shopkeeper, suspicious at the quiet in the storeroom, closed the door before she answered.
A few minutes later the doorbell tinkled again as the customer left and Sara braced herself as the solid shopkeeper swept into the room. She shrieked at the mess Sara had created with the sugar, castigating her for the waste of the precious commodity. She was unceremoniously discharged from sugar duties and set to sweeping up again. Then, for the rest of the morning Sara was banished up the ladder to dust the top shelves and wipe over the tins of toffee and mustard powder that shared the same quarters. Sara was mystified by Mrs Sergeant’s classification of goods; they appeared to be grouped together by the colour of their packaging rather than content. She was doubtful if she would ever be able to find anything if asked.
At twelve-thirty precisely, Mrs Sergeant closed the shop for her lunch hour and despatched Sara home. There was no sign of Raymond.
‘Be back by twenty-past-one, sharp,’ she ordered and, securing a purple trilby hat on her white hair, set off for her house in Oswald Street.
Sara was reluctant to return to South Parade in case her uncle was there. Marina would be home from school and Ida would be fussing over dinner and not wanting her in the way.
Moreover, her appetite had deserted her and the thought of the morose Colin loafing around, too, convinced Sara that she would wander the village instead.
After half an hour of meandering the town and its warren of identical streets, Sara found herself in Pit Street and was excited to discover Dimarco’s cafe on the opposite corner. If only she had some money with which to go in and order a treat from its sparkling windows under the gaily striped awnings, Sara thought wistfully. There had been no mention of remuneration from the formidable widow grocer and Sara had not dared ask when she was likely to be paid her first wage.
Still, she could gaze in at the sophisticated cafe and watch its patrons guzzle ice-cream. She sauntered over pretending to study the array of chocolates in the window, far superior to Sergeant’s dull bottled jars of boiled sweets and leaden toffees. Mouth-watering, these were studded with coloured crystallised flowers and encased in beribboned boxes, their lids raised to entice the sweet-toothed.
Glancing into the cool interior of the parlour, Sara did not like to admit that she half hoped for a glimpse of the handsome Joe Dimarco. On one side of the cafe, wooden booths housed marble-topped tables and coloured glass in the partitions threw shards of red and blue light on to the spotlessly clean tiled floor. Some tables were occupied by people drinking tea and eating pies and a stocky young man with a thin moustache was hurrying to and fro with a tray, but there was no sign of Joe.
A large silver machine with taps and handles gleamed on the polished counter, and behind it stood the mustachioed proprietor she had spotted from Marina’s bedroom window. From the hissing machine, he dispensed coffee and jokes with a genial, beaming face to the customers. A woman with hair tightly scraped back in a bun was pouring chocolate drops from a curvy-shaped jar into a cone of paper for a child at the counter.
A voice startled her from behind. ‘You can’t afford to go in there!’ Sara jumped round guiltily and saw Raymond standing at the kerb with his bicycle, his large cap pushed back on his copper-coloured hair.
‘Just looking,’ Sara replied, with a lift of her chin. ‘Where’ve you been all morning, any road?’
‘Got a puncture,’ he grinned. ‘Bobby Dimarco’s been fixing it for me. His people run this place. I’ll treat you to an ice if you like.’
Sara was touched by the youth’s ready generosity, for she was sure Mrs Sergeant would not pay him enough for such luxuries.
‘No, I couldn’t,’ she refused half-heartedly.
‘Have you had any dinner?’
Sara shook her head.
‘Haway, I’ll buy you an ice-cream,’ Raymond insisted, propping his machine against a lamp-post. Sara followed him eagerly.
‘Hello, Mr Dimarco,’ Raymond greeted the proprietor, ‘Mrs Dimarco.’ She nodded at him.
‘Good afternoon Raymond,’ the burly Italian replied with a smile. ‘What can I do with you?’
‘I’ll have a chocolate ice with monkey’s blood please,’ he replied.
‘What’s monkey’s blood?’ Sara asked, pulling a face.
‘That’s the red syrup,’ he laughed.
‘And the young lady?’ Mr Dimarco inclined his head towards Sara.
‘Vanilla, please,’ she smiled shyly, enjoying his deferential manner.
‘A good choice,’ he nodded wisely. Mrs Dimarco disappeared to fetch some more glasses.
‘Your Bobby’s just fixed me bike,’ Raymond told the rotund cafe owner as they waited. ‘So if you want me to do any deliveries for you after work, just say the word.’
‘Grazie, you’re a good boy, Raymond,’ the man thanked him. ‘My Joseph may need some help at the Carnival. Va bene, I come and say the word then.’
Mrs Dimarco reappeared and served them ice-cream in tal
l glasses with long-handled spoons. ‘Fourpence,’ she smiled and Raymond handed over the money.
‘You sit at the table,’ Mr Dimarco insisted with a sweep of his hand. ‘Enjoy your ice-cream.’
‘Ta very much,’ Raymond grinned and led Sara to a table by the door where the wood and glass partitions would not obstruct the view of passers-by. She realised he was enjoying showing off to her in front of the Dimarcos and perhaps hoping some friends might spot him sitting in the prestigious cafe with an unknown girl. Sara did not mind; she sucked happily on her spoon, unable to believe her luck in having two ice-creams in two days.
It reminded her of the football match and she told Raymond she had met his aunt, Mrs Ritson.
‘Auntie Louie watches me in all weathers,’ Raymond said proudly. ‘Hates football but she always turns out to support me.’
‘Do you live with your aunt, then?’ Sara asked.
‘Aye, ever since me dad died when I was a bairn.’ Raymond volunteered the information without emotion. ‘Mam’s a famous actress and has to travel, you see,’ he preened. ‘She’s been on the wireless an’ all.’
‘Never!’ Sara gasped in admiration. She eyed her skinny companion in a new light. ‘I’d love to meet a real actress. What’s she called?’
‘Iris Ramshaw.’ Raymond’s face shone with pride. ‘It’s her maiden name - actresses often keep their maiden name like that.’
‘I’ve never heard of her,’ Sara said, a touch disappointed.
‘Well, she’s famous,’ Raymond maintained stubbornly. ‘Mam has to travel about all o’er the place. But she comes home when she can,’ he added with a wistful note in his voice.
Sara warmed to the boy’s friendly confidentiality and found herself telling him about her own father’s death, feeling the ache of emptiness ease a fraction as she spoke of him. She explained why she had come to live with her uncle.
‘Alf Cummings?’ Raymond’s look hardened as he repeated the name. ‘We don’t have anything to do with him.’
Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies Page 10
