Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘I hope you don’t mean I’ve put on weight?’ Albina sounded offended.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Rosa replied hastily.

  ‘Are you just going to leave your hair like that?’ Albina said, with a critical look at Rosa’s straight locks and fringe, patting her own thick, wavy hair with pride. Rosa felt dashed.

  ‘I’ll be wearing a flowered headband,’ she defended her appearance, feeling at a disadvantage against her more sophisticated cousin.

  They were diverted by the handing over of presents, while cousin Benito went out to admire Joe’s motorcycle and Uncle Davide allowed his youngest nephew, Bobby, to sit in the driver’s seat of his expensive and cherished car.

  ‘Come, girls!’ Rosa’s mother put a stop to the gossiping and present opening. ‘It’s time to put on your dresses.’

  The next half hour was frantic with activity as Rosa and Albina fumbled with Domenica’s dress and veil and giggled with tension, under the scrutiny and direction of the older women. Eventually they were satisfied and Domenica did indeed look stunning in her dress of white satin and lace flowers and the elaborate headdress that trailed beyond her feet. Rosa felt pretty, too, in a dress of primrose yellow with a band of yellow and white flowers in her straight dark hair; no matter that Albina obviously thought herself the more attractive. Anna and Sylvia left to change into their outfits, bought specially for the occasion.

  ‘Aren’t you going to wear any lipstick, Rosa?’ Albina asked, glancing up from a small mirror she carried in her handbag, her large mouth smeared with pink. ‘Your face is very pale without it.’

  ‘Here, try some of mine,’ Domenica smiled at her sister.

  ‘But Mamma…’ Rosa was reluctant.

  ‘She’ll not object today,’ her sister dismissed her fears. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve been wearing lipstick since I was your age,’ Albina told Rosa with a condescending smile. ‘But then we have more social get-togethers in Sunderland than you do here, I expect.’

  ‘I suppose you do,’ Rosa agreed, quite in awe of her cousin.

  ‘Rubbish!’ Domenica contradicted. ‘We have plenty dances and suppers in Whitton Grange. The Carnival dance this year was the best one I’ve been to in my life.’ Rosa gawped at her sister for the blatant lie.

  ‘Not better than the dances at the fascio, surely?’ Albina’s tone was disbelieving.

  ‘Better than at the fascio,’ Domenica declared, stung into such an admission by her cousin’s patronising manner. She turned from Albina’s plump pout and winked at Rosa as she carefully applied the red lipstick to the younger girl’s lips.

  ‘Lend Rosa your mirror, Albina,’ Domenica commanded.

  Rosa looked with trepidation at her reflection. Albina was right, she thought, the deep colour of her lips gave warmth to her whole face. Rosa believed she could pass for seventeen or eighteen dressed as she was now. Tears of emotion pricked her eyes as she looked at Domenica in her finery.

  ‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ she said candidly. Domenica turned and threw her arms about her young sister.

  ‘Me too, Rosa.’

  Rosa found herself crying in spite of Albina’s presence, joy and sadness tugging her insides.

  ‘Hey, it’s supposed to be me who cries!’ Domenica teased her. ‘You’re behaving like the bride - now stop stealing the limelight.’

  Rosa laughed and wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Listen,’ Domenica smoothed her hair like a child’s, ‘you can come and stay with us in Sunderland as soon as you want. It’d be nice for me to have the company while Pasquale’s working in the shop.’

  ‘Won’t you be helping your husband?’ Albina interrupted.

  Domenica winked. ‘I’ll be too busy having babies!’ she said with a wicked smile. ‘You’ll understand when someone eventually asks you to marry him.’ Albina flushed crimson at the snub.

  ‘Domenica!’ Rosa spluttered with shocked giggles.

  At this point Anna Dimarco hurried in to their bedroom. ‘What’s all this laughter? You should be ready - oh, Santa Teresa!’ she exclaimed, catching sight of her daughters, overcome once again by their beauty. ‘Bellissima!’ she cried and pushed away a treacherous tear.

  ‘Domenica says I can go and stay with her when she’s married,’ Rosa said cheerfully.

  ‘We’ll see,’ answered her mother, in the infuriating way she always side-stepped requests from her youngest daughter. Soon, Rosa thought stubbornly, I shall be the eldest daughter at home and she will have to take more notice of what I want. Somehow she would make sure she got to stay with Domenica and Pasquale. Her father would agree, Rosa was sure, and the best way to persuade her mother was through her father. But Albina opened her mouth and aided Rosa’s cause unintentionally.

  ‘Rosa, you should think of your mother,’ she chastised. ‘You’ll be needed here more than ever once Domenica goes. Won’t she, Aunt Anna?’ she preened, smoothing the yellow satin over her full bosom. ‘It’s different for us, of course, with Papa having help in the shops. I’ve never had to work like you, Cousin Rosa.’

  ‘Oh I think we can spare Rosa for a week or two, if she wants to stay with Domenica,’ Anna was brusque. ‘My girls are very close you see, Albina,’ she replied proudly, ‘and we manage very well as we are without any outside help in our shop.’ As a parting shot, Rosa’s mother added, ‘I always think it’s a pity if a family has to depend on outsiders and can’t manage for themselves.’

  Domenica and Rosa tried to maintain straight faces as they followed their mother into the living-room where Aunt Elvira and Granny Maria were waiting for them. After that, there was no more time for rivalry. Rosa accompanied her parents and sister in the gleaming blue Austin that her father had hired to take them to the church, while behind came Paolo and his young family in the Dimarco van with Uncle Davide’s huge car at the rear. Bobby and Joe elected to walk down to the church, accompanied by cousin Benito who was regaling them with stories of Manchester where he was studying law. For once, Rosa thought, as she glanced out of the window, Joe was looking smart in a suit and white shirt, his hair combed and shiningly clean. Thankfully he seemed to be his lively self again, laughing at something Benito was saying and Rosa gripped her bouquet of roses in happy expectation.

  Sara watched the Dimarcos and Perellas disgorge in great numbers down the church steps, to a peal of bells and a blast of music behind them. The disruption of noise was even more deafening in contrast to the unaccustomed quiet of the Durham Road on Big Meeting Day. With talk of war on everyone’s lips, all but the most elderly or infirm had gone into Durham to enjoy themselves on what might be the last Gala before conflict put a stop to frivolity. Only the ancient, the incontinent and the sandwich makers had stayed, Sara thought resentfully, having spent the morning at the Memorial Hall preparing a cold tea for when the pitfolk returned.

  Yet she had succeeded in slipping away from the watchful eye of Mrs Sergeant, who had been detailed to look after her until Ida came back from Durham on the early afternoon train in time to supervise tea for the returning villagers. Sara and Mrs Sergeant had been preparing sandwiches when Sara, declaring she was feeling faint and needing some fresh air, made a dash from the hall. She half suspected Mrs Sergeant saw it for the excuse it was and that the older woman had allowed her to go and watch the wedding procession. The surly grocer did not share Uncle Alfred’s aversion to foreigners or Catholics, especially good paying ones, and had herself sent Domenica a present of a tea caddy, albeit an unsold one left over from the Royal Jubilee of 1935, depicting the late King George V and Queen Mary.

  The sky was gun-metal, and ominous with rain as Sara peered out from behind a large chestnut tree. She sighed at the fairytale sight of the pretty dark-eyed bride in swathes of white satin and lace on the arm of a well-dressed, full-faced young man with thick dark eyebrows and a peak of black hair on his square brow. Sara was struck by how happy Domenica and Pasquale looked. Following them came Domenica’s bridesmaids in f
resh yellow, Rosa looking flushed and attractive beside a rather dumpy girl whom she took to be cousin Albina from Sunderland. A tall, good-looking young man with wavy hair and a thin moustache stood beside the girls and Sara wondered if this was the best man, Emilio, about whom Domenica had teased Rosa. A flock of neatly dressed young children hampered the photographer who was trying to catch the joyous moment and Sara tried to work out who all the relations might be.

  She experienced a stab of jealousy to see Joe looking handsome in a suit she had never seen him wear before, talking animatedly with a slim, poised girl in spectacles who looked elegant in a simple blue dress and straw hat. Sara felt her loneliness and isolation compounded by the transparent joy of these close-knit families coming together to give the young couple their blessing. She was envious of Domenica’s radiance, envious of Rosa’s appearance, envious of the Dimarcos’ protectiveness and the warmth that surrounded them while shutting her out.

  Sara’s throat flooded with emotion, unable to allow her bitterness to completely swamp her delight at the romantic sight before her. Grudgingly, she wished them well. Several minutes elapsed and huge slow drops of rain began to plop onto the roadway before Arturo took charge and ordered the chattering guests into their cars and back to Pit Street. She was surprised to see Sergeant Turnbull hovering awkwardly on the edge of the group with a prim-looking woman in green whom she took to be Mrs Turnbull. She had not realised they were such close friends of the Dimarcos.

  As Domenica stepped into the waiting car with Pasquale, Sara could no longer contain her desire to be among them. Impulsively, she ran from the cover of the trees just as the heavens opened in a barrage of rain and rushed up to the bride and groom, pulling a bag of rice from her gabardine pocket and throwing its contents over them.

  ‘Good luck, Domenica!’ she called at the astonished girl.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied uncertainly, and waved as Pasquale pulled the car door shut.

  Sara turned to see Rosa staring at her from the window of a blue car. They exchanged embarrassed looks and Rosa half raised her hand in farewell. The engine of the car was revving but Arturo Dimarco wound down his window and called to her.

  ‘Sara, you will come for a piece of the cake later, yes?’

  She was filled with gratitude that he should ask, in spite of the trouble it might cause with her uncle. ‘Thank you but I’ll not get away again, we’ll be that busy with the pitmen and their families,’ she said sadly as the rain pelted her bare head.

  He waved and she stood back as the procession of cars and vans chugged past. She turned to see Joe watching her, with a foot already inside the Dimarco van. His expression was strained, as if he were angered by her abrupt appearance. The driver, Paolo, started the engine and Joe scrambled into the van, followed by a square-faced young man shaking a wet umbrella. He had made no attempt to speak or even acknowledge her, Sara thought dismally. The sight of her in sodden coat and tousled hair was obviously an embarrassment to him among all his well-dressed relations.

  As swiftly as they had appeared, the tide of wedding guests swept out of sight and the strange stillness that gripped the village descended again with the vertical rain. Sara pulled her coat up over her head and began to run for cover.

  ***

  For Rosa, the day sped by far too quickly, yet she made an effort to remember every detail of the enormous wedding feast, with its speeches, conversation, music and dancing To her delight, not only did she sit next to the attractive Emilio Fella but he showered her with attention, despite the watchful eyes and ears of her mother on one side and her brother Paolo on the other. With her stomach knotted in excitement, Rosa struggled through the eight courses of soup and salami and pastas, potatoes fried in garlic and olive oil, red peppers grilled until crispy black on top and a myriad of other vegetables which accompanied the strongly flavoured roast mutton. It was all liberally washed down with a succession of wines and then finished off with a selection of rich, creamy puddings and ices and cup after cup of her father’s coffee.

  Various Perella children, led by her brother Bobby, left the boredom of adult conversation and disappeared to explore the yard and its outhouses. Uncle Davide produced some bottles of his homemade wine with a proud flourish and, while he and Arturo fell to arguing over who made the superior wine, Rosa gave her full attention to Emilio’s amusing chatter.

  His English was poor, but his gesticulations and expressive face were mesmerising to watch. Rosa blushed and giggled at her attempts to answer him in their mother tongue and he set about teaching her some Italian with exaggerated mannerisms, which made her laugh all the more.

  ‘You laugh at poor Emilio,si’?’ he clutched his heart and gave her a soulful look. Rosa gazed into his hazel eyes and noticed they were flecked with gold, echoing the fair tint in his wavy brown hair. He was altogether fairer skinned than the other Italians she knew and his thin moustache was almost golden. She was quite overwhelmed that he should want to talk to her instead of the voluptuous Albina who was making eyes at him from across the table.

  ‘No, I’m not laughing,’ Rosa giggled, ‘it’s just you’re so funny - and I think Papa’s wine is going to my head!’ She glanced at her mother, but she was in conversation with the balding, dignified Mr Perella.

  ‘Lucky wine,’ Emilio leaned closer, ‘you have such a pretty head.’

  Rosa blushed and felt him slip a hand on to her knee under cover of the tablecloth. She let it stay there, her heart beginning to thud with unimaginable excitement. She thought she had been fond of the bashful Raymond, but his boyish good looks did not set her heart hammering like the manly Emilio’s did. This was altogether a different experience.

  So when the lively wedding party grew more raucous and the tables and chairs were pushed back to allow for a small band of musicians to play, including an inebriated Uncle Davide on the accordion, Rosa did not hesitate in accepting Emilio as her first dancing partner. Domenica and Pasquale began the dancing and then her parents and the Perellas took to the floor, followed swiftly by Paolo and Sylvia, and Aunt Elvira with cousin Benito. More of the Perellas joined in as the dancing grew lively and Rosa noticed Joe lead cousin Val in a polka.

  ‘Your cousin is giving black looks, yes?’ Emilio spoke in Rosa’s ear as they whirled in the tarantella. Rosa glanced round to see Albina scowling at them, munching on a chunk of bread.

  ‘Albina doesn’t like me very much,’ Rosa grimaced.

  ‘Madonna!’ Emilio protested. ‘She is jealous.’

  ‘Of me?’ Rosa laughed. ‘She is much prettier than I am,’ Rosa said without guile.

  ‘No,’ Emilio dropped his voice to a rumble, ‘you are the pretty one. When God made your face - he take stars from the sky for your eyes!’

  Rosa’s insides melted at his flattery; she had never before experienced such attention and it made her thirst for more. Emilio Fella was the most exciting person she had ever known and, as the afternoon wore on, she felt she would do anything and go anywhere with him. She ignored her mother’s warning looks and Albina’s spiteful asides and gave herself up to the complete enjoyment of Emilio’s company. If he was Pasquale Perella’s best man, then it was quite circumspect for her to accept his attentions. And everything might have gone quite differently if an argument had not broken out when it did.

  Rosa became aware of raised voices above the general hubbub and her father’s untrained bass voice which had broken into song. She turned in her chair, where Emilio was daringly holding her hand under the table, to see Joe in confrontation with Uncle Davide. Cousin Val was standing to the side looking troubled and Benito was interjecting but being ignored by both his father and cousin Joe.

  ‘Il Duce is a great leader,’ Uncle Davide declared. ‘How dare you dismiss what he has done for us Italians abroad as well as at home? Don’t forget why we had to leave home, your father and I - because we were too poor to eat. Mussolini has given our country prosperity - there are roads and water running through our villages now. He h
as given us back our pride.’

  ‘Pride in what?’ Joe scoffed. ‘That Italians massacred Abyssinians and Albanians? That Italy is now in league with bully-boy Hitler?’

  ‘Pah!’ Uncle Davide waved him away with a dismissive hand. ‘You read too much of the English newspapers - where is your Italian heart, Joseph Arturo? Italy has a right to an empire as much as the English or French. No one complains about them slicing up the world like a cake!’

  ‘But Joe is right when he says Mussolini is Hitler’s man now,’ Benito nodded gravely. ‘What happens to us Italians if Britain goes to war with Germany? We will be seen as the enemy too.’

  ‘Don’t talk such rubbish!’ his father declared. ‘Benito, you are my son and I love you, but you make worries for yourself. How can we be enemies of the English? We have lived and worked here all our lives - one day you will be a lawyer of English. The English are our friends - they like us - they like our ice-cream and our fish and chips, isn’t that so, Signor Turnbull?’

  The police officer was alert to their arguing, but maintained a cool distance. ‘Very good ice-cream,’ he nodded. Joe gave him a withering look, angry that this man who was continually getting him into trouble should be a guest at his sister’s wedding.

  ‘Some people treat us like the enemy already,’ Joe was scathing.

  Pasquale’s father was drawn into the argument.

  ‘That is not what I have found,’ he contradicted quietly, ‘yet the thought of war is worrying for our business…’

  ‘War, war! Why does everyone talk of war?’ Uncle Davide asked with exasperation. His wrinkled brow was sweating from the heat and labour of his accordion playing. He mopped his face with a large handkerchief.

  ‘Because lads like me and Benito will get called up to fight for Britain if there’s a war,’ Joe answered aggressively. Rosa could tell from across the room that he was fired up with wine and not ready to be silenced. ‘Val here might have to go, too, as an army nurse. Have you thought about that?’