Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  ‘Valentina will stay at home with me and her mother.’ Uncle Davide was frightened by such a suggestion. ‘Or find a young doctor for a husband, eh, Valentina?’

  ‘No, Father,’ Val answered with quiet determination. ‘I’m serious about my nursing. I want it to be my career.’

  Uncle Davide’s mouth dropped open, then he decided to ignore the challenge to his authority and returned to hector Joe.

  ‘Listen, Joseph! If you are called up you will go like a good soldier - like your father and me. Don’t forget we fought in the Great War alongside the British - but as loyal Italians. Merda! We fought and died with them - we are all ex combattenti together. How can the British see us as the enemy, Arturo?’ he appealed to his brother. ‘You boys are mad in the head!’

  ‘Please, this is my daughter’s wedding!’ Arturo protested. ‘Joseph, have a little respect for your uncle, say you are sorry for the pain you give him.’

  Joe looked angrily between the men, unable to bring himself to apologise.

  ‘No, see how he is silent?’ Uncle Davide bristled at the offence. ‘He is a bad Italian - he has no respect for his compare.’

  Joe was stung by the reproof. It was true, Uncle Davide was his godfather and the man to whom he should look up to above all others and yet he had done nothing but argue with him since the wedding feast began. He loved his uncle and had idolised him as a small boy, yet now he represented the authority and Italianata that imprisoned him and prevented him from seeing his Sara. He could not be a good Italian and continue to love a girl from outside their community.

  This past week he had felt increasing annoyance that he missed Sara as much as he did. He could settle to nothing, not even football, without thinking about the Pallister lass. Today Joe had determined to think no more about her and force himself to take an interest in his unmarried female relations or perhaps one of Pasquale Perella’s sisters. But seeing Sara rush like some water nymph from out of the dene at the church, sprinkling rice and grinning at Domenica with her wide, impish mouth, he knew it was futile to try and banish her from his mind. His resentment at being denied her company boiled over now at his uncle and father.

  ‘Perhaps I am a bad Italian,’ Joe shouted, subduing the whole room, ‘but then it’s you who have brought me up in this country and encouraged me to be a good English lad. How can I be a loyal Italian if I don’t speak the language or if I never visit our homeland? I don’t sound like you and I don’t think like you - so how am I supposed to feel the way you do? Tell me that, Papa - Uncle Davide!’

  His father and uncle stared at him with a mixture of bafflement and anger. Unexpectedly, Val backed him up. ‘I know what Joe means,’ she said with a controlled passion. ‘We are caught between two ways of doing things - the one we are taught at home and the one we learn at school and outside our family. It’s not that we aren’t proud of our Italianata, Father, we are. It’s just we can never be as Italian as you want us to be. Yet we can never be as English as the English want us to be, either.’ She turned her serious dark eyes on Joe’s father. ‘You shouldn’t blame Joe for being the mix that he is, Uncle Arturo. It isn’t easy living with divided loyalties pulling you this way and that.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence and then Uncle Davide declared, ‘I’ve never heard you say such things before, Valentina! Where do you get such notions? What divided loyalties? The choice is easy - you are Italians!’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say, Father,’ Valentina grew more heated, ‘but not for our generation.’

  ‘Joe, is this how you feel?’ Arturo asked his son, puzzled.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Joe replied, never having analysed it in the way his cousin had.

  ‘It’s my wedding!’ shrieked Domenica, furious at the way she and her new husband were taking second place to the discussion. ‘Joe, can’t you behave yourself for one day?’

  Granny Maria began to bluster with disapproval in Italian and Anna Dimarco burst into tears at the tension. Aunt Elvira rushed to comfort her, while the gaunt-faced Mrs Perella maintained a distant, embarrassed look.

  Soon the room was in an uproar of argument and recriminations once more. Two of the musicians decided to begin playing again in spite of the din and the Turnbulls left hurriedly with Arturo in pursuit, pressing them to stay longer. Emilio chose that moment to squeeze Rosa’s hand.

  ‘Let’s leave them to the fighting,’ he smiled, ‘I think it would be nice to walk, si?’

  Rosa glanced about her, but nobody seemed to notice them in their tranquil corner. Even Albina had gathered around the conflicting parties and was adding her voice.

  ‘We could walk in the dene now the rain’s stopped,’ she smiled nervously.

  ‘Anywhere,’ Emilio said, squeezing her hand again. It felt so warm nestled inside his possessive hold, Rosa thought with a curious thud in her chest.

  Quietly, they got up from the table and left by the back door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The late afternoon sun that broke through the clouds was warm on her face and neck as Rosa strolled down South Street with the handsome Emilio. Still dressed in her yellow satin frock and headband of flowers, the tall Italian beside her in his formal suit, they made a becoming sight to the trickle of villagers who were returning wearily from their day out in Durham. People smiled at them and nodded in greeting.

  They wandered arm in arm down the main street, turning past the Catholic Church on Durham Road and into the dene. At this point, Emilio slipped an arm about Rosa’s petite waist.

  ‘The way is too tight,’ he explained. ‘We must walk close together.’

  Rosa laughed. ‘Too narrow,’ she corrected.

  ‘Narrow?’ Emilio puzzled over the word.

  ‘The path is too narrow,’ Rosa repeated.

  ‘You teach me good Inglese,’ he announced, ‘I teaching you Italiano, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosa agreed, pleased. She began to point things out as they walked and Emilio copied her, pulling comic faces at his attempts and making her laugh.

  Presently they reached the end of the dene, where the path skirted the allotments and snaked into Whitton Woods. Rosa hesitated.

  ‘It goes up to the Common,’ she told him. He looked nonplussed. ‘The hill. You can look right over Whitton Grange. I’ve only ever been twice before. When it’s clear you can just see the top of Durham Cathedral.’

  ‘Ah, cathedral,’ Emilio pounced on a word he understood. ‘I like to see.’

  They carried on walking, climbing the steep path through the trees, slithering on the muddy track and catching each other from falling. But before they emerged on to Whitton Common, Emilio pulled her to a halt and encircled her with his arms.

  ‘Now I teach you some Italian, yes?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes?’ Rosa echoed, her heart hammering.

  Emilio began to kiss his way gently across her face, speaking the words for forehead, nose, eyes and cheeks in his soft, seductive tongue. At her mouth he lingered for longer and Rosa closed her eyes and gave in to the delightful sensation of their lips touching. He pulled her closer and kissed her more firmly, his hands beginning to explore. Rosa gasped as he brushed her tiny breasts beneath the satin, but was too surprised to pull away.

  ‘Bella Rosa,’ he whispered, covering her face with exquisite kisses like butterflies brushing her skin. Rosa trembled. ‘I can see why your papa call you a rose.’

  At the mention of her father, Rosa’s paralysed arms stirred and she brought her hands up between them.

  ‘We shall be missed,’ she croaked. ‘I think we should go back now.’

  ‘Oh, Rosa, Rosa,’ Emilio buried his face into her slender neck. ‘You have stolen my heart. How can I leave you?’

  ‘Domenica has invited me to stay in Sunderland,’ Rosa told him, equally reluctant to move from his hold. ‘Perhaps we could see each other if I do?’ she asked, holding her breath in anticipation.

  ‘Si!’ Emilio cried. ‘You must come. I will come to Pasqua
le’s house and ask to see you. If he says no, I sing in your window till he says yes.’

  Rosa stifled a laugh.’ Under my window.’

  ‘Under, in, on, out - what you say! I come, Rosa,’ he declared.

  ‘Good, I would like that,’ she answered with a flush of pleasure. ‘But now I really think we should go back to the wedding before my sister and Pasquale leave.’

  Hand-in-hand, they turned back along the muddy path, Rosa uncaring about the tell-tale stains spoiling the hem of her gown or the sorry state of her once-white shoes. She was in love with Emilio Fella and even the thought of her mother’s scolding could not blight such a wonderful feeling.

  Joe sat straddling his motionless motorcycle, brooding over the events of the afternoon. He still wore his suit trousers and polished shoes, but his jacket and tie had long been discarded and he shivered in his shirt sleeves as a chill breeze cooled the weakening shafts of evening sun.

  His argument with Uncle Davide and his father had climaxed with Domenica slapping him across the cheek. Paolo, hating any family feuding, had stepped in and calmed tempers down by apologising to Uncle Davide on his brother’s behalf and flattering him into playing another tune on his accordion. Uncle Davide had been mollified and Paolo, requesting a soothing waltz, had led Domenica in the dance, quickly followed by the relieved Perellas.

  Joe, now ignored by the rest of his family - even the faithful Rosa seemed to have disappeared from sight - had offered to drive Cousin Val to the station where she was catching the five-thirty-five back to Sunderland. Domenica said a frosty farewell to her self-composed cousin who she saw as having aggravated the situation, so Joe and Val had left swiftly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Val had said to Joe as they waited for the train, ‘they’ll look back and remember today with nostalgia in a month or two. Father won’t stay angry with you forever.’

  ‘Not like he has with Uncle Gino, you mean?’ Joe asked dryly.

  Val allowed herself a wry smile. ‘Well, give him twenty years or so and he’ll come round to our point of view.’

  Joe laughed; he liked his quiet cousin and her detached, dry humour. A pity he did not find her attractive, he thought, as he waved her away, it might have solved a lot of problems. Then he chided himself for his arrogance. Cousin Val would probably have turned him down anyway, he laughed to himself; she appeared firmly wedded to her nursing.

  Unable to return to the merriment of the wedding party in Pit Street, Joe had motored around the streets aimlessly for half an hour before setting up vigil outside the Memorial Hall. He knew Sara was in there serving teas to the pitfolk and he would sit there until she emerged, not caring who saw him.

  He chain-smoked and picked over the troubling words that Benito had said. ‘If Britain goes to war with Germany, won’t the English see us as the enemy?’ Joe had never thought of such an outcome. He would be an enemy in his own country, the place of his birth, here in Whitton Grange among the people with whom he had grown up, played football, fought and loved… Impossible! he banished such gloomy thoughts, flicking his fourth cigarette into the gutter and watching it spit as it died.

  ‘Wedding over, is it?’ a voice behind shook him back to the present. Raymond was passing him, hands deep in his pockets, his large cap facing the wrong way on his auburn hair.

  ‘It is for me,’ Joe admitted. ‘Had a canny day in Durham?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve been celebratin’. I start at the Eleanor on Monday.’ Raymond grinned foolishly. ‘No more slave labour for the Sergeant-Major.’ Joe caught a faint whiff of stale beer on the boy’s breath. ‘What you doing hanging around here for?’ Raymond focused on Joe more closely.

  ‘Sara’s in there.’ Joe nodded towards the hall.

  Raymond whistled. ‘You’ve got a nerve! The lass’s life’s been a misery since Cummings found out about you two.’

  ‘Do us a favour, will you, Raymond?’ Joe seized his chance before his friend’s good humour waned. ‘Gan into the hall and tell Sara I want a word.’

  ‘Tell her yourself,’ his friend answered, suddenly riled at being used as Joe’s messenger boy. His new mates thought Joe Dimarco a show-off on his motorbike and Raymond had distanced himself from his old friend. It upset him too, to think how miserable Sara had been since Joe had cooled relations with her.

  ‘Haway, Raymond,’ Joe coaxed, ‘you know she’s not allowed to see me.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave the poor lass alone? The rest of your family want nothing to do with her - even Rosa’s turning up her nose now.’ Raymond was suddenly aggressive.

  ‘Well, I’m different. I need to see her.’ Joe curbed his impatience. ‘I’ll do you a favour in return. We’re still marras aren’t we, Raymond?’

  Raymond hesitated, feeling a twinge of guilt. ‘Have you got any smokes?’ Joe nodded and pulled out a packet of Woodbines. He knocked one out and handed it to the youth. ‘The whole packet,’ Raymond bargained, guessing his position of strength.

  ‘Gan on then,’ Joe sighed, tossing him the packet.

  ‘By, you must be keen on the lass,’ Raymond grinned, ‘and on your sister’s weddin’ day, too.’ He set off up the steps to the Memorial Hall.

  ‘Don’t let her Aunt Ida hear you,’ Joe called after his friend as he wobbled unsteadily on the top step.

  Joe waited an age, watching the faces which appeared from the double doorway, searching in vain for any sign of Raymond or Sara and wondering at his foolhardiness in trying to contact her. He was about to give up when he recognised Sara’s figure emerging out of the shadowy hallway. Her face was hot and flushed, with tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks. She wore a faded apron that pinched her at the waist.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded at once. ‘What’s this all about, Joe Dimarco? Why are you bothering me on your sister’s wedding day - I thought it was family only?’

  Joe’s spirits roused at her attack; to argue with her was ten times better than not to see her at all.

  ‘I’m risking my neck waiting here for you,’ he retaliated, ‘so the least you can do is listen to what I’ve got to say.’

  ‘Why should I?’ Sara said crossly, gripping her arms in front like a barrier, determined to remain cold towards him.

  ‘Because—’ Joe paused, then swallowed his pride,’ ‘cos I need to see you again, Sara.’

  She gave him a disbelieving look and said nothing.

  ‘I don’t care what my family say,’ Joe ploughed on, ‘they can’t keep us apart - and neither can yours!’

  Sara glanced round nervously, half expecting to see her aunt fussing after her. ‘But they have, Joe,’ she said resignedly. ‘Listen, I said I’d just gone to wash so I can’t stay out here any longer - it’s too risky with half the village about.’

  ‘Sara, I miss you,’ Joe spoke with desperation. ‘Say you’ll see me again.’

  She was helpless with indecision, fearing the trouble they might bring upon themselves. Yet, seeing his handsome face so close and knowing she could not touch him made her ache with longing.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to…’ she wavered.

  ‘Can you get away next Saturday?’ Joe grabbed at an idea, seeing her weakening resolve. ‘We’re doing the refreshments at a dance in Durham. I’ll go instead of Paolo - it’ll be easy for me to get away.’

  ‘But not for me!’ Sara felt hopeless.

  ‘Try,’ Joe challenged her. ‘Climb out of your window if you have to - anything, just be in the dene at our usual place by seven.’

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ Sara half laughed, half remonstrated, ‘how can I?’

  He lunged for her hand and kissed it impulsively. ‘I want to dance with you again, Bellissima. I’m going daft thinking about you.’

  Sara felt a familiar thrill, his words warming the bleak emptiness she had nursed inside this past week.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she promised and then snatched her hand away. She turned and ran back up the steps, with only a swift glance back at him betraying the longing she fe
lt.

  By the time Joe returned to the parlour, Domenica and Pasquale had left, as had the other Perellas and most of the other guests. The musicians had disbanded and Sylvia was helping the hired girls clear the tables, while Paolo and his father, Uncle Davide and Benito were staunchly drinking their way through the remainder of the wine.

  ‘Ah, here is my worthless son. Where have you been hiding?’ Arturo waved a hand at Joe as he slunk through the doorway. ‘Domenica is gone,’ he added with emotion.

  ‘Valentina is gone!’ Uncle Davide took up the mournful chorus.

  ‘Our daughters - our jewels!’ Arturo raised his glass once more and they drank to their offspring.

  ‘Only Albina is left to me…’ Uncle Davide became morose.

  ‘And Rosa to me,’ Arturo sighed. ‘What would I do without my little Rosa?’

  ‘Or me without my pussetta Linda,’ Paolo joined in, with tears in his eyes.

  At that moment Rosa appeared from the back-shop cradling a drowsy Peter in her arms.

  ‘I found him in Gelato’s stable - the children built a camp in there,’ she told Sylvia. ‘Shall I put him to bed?’

  ‘Ah, bambino,’ Sylvia hurried over and took the sleepy child from his aunt’s hold. ‘I’ll take him.’

  Joe guessed that the rest of the women were upstairs and he hung about, reluctant to face their disapproval. As the men continued to ignore him, he began to help clear the debris.

  ‘Leave that to the girls,’ Arturo ordered, unable to keep up the hostility towards his wayward son. ‘You can sit with us - if you can bear to be in the company of your family for a few minutes,’ he jibed.

  ‘As long as you talk no politics,’ Uncle Davide growled.

  Joe acceded and pulled up a chair. He drank a glass of wine and listened to their reminiscences of people and places he only knew by name. Even Paolo was joining in, confirming his earliest memories of life in the village outside Cassino where he had been born, his father having returned and married just before the Great War. Paolo had come into a bright sunny world in 1914 and Arturo had returned to England to prepare a home for his new family, only to be severed from them for nearly five years by war. While Arturo served in a British regiment Paolo had grown up with the village children in their close-knit community and he had a strong memory of the sea voyage at the age of nearly six that brought him and his mother to England.