‘King Victor Emmanuel will make peace with the British,’ Arturo was confident, ‘and then perhaps Davide and the others will be allowed to come home.’
August arrived and, after heavy fighting, the British finally marched into Catania, then Taormina to secure Sicily under Allied control. One Saturday afternoon, late in the month, Sara and Rosa took the children up to the Common for a picnic and a romp around in the fresh air. The sky was hazy from the warm day and they looked down on the shimmering village, its dirty brick muted and indistinct. Around them, the yellow cornfields were newly shorn and speckled with scavenging blackbirds.
‘Someone’s coming up the path,’ Rosa pointed at a lone figure, making determinedly towards them.
‘Probably a rambler,’ Sara said, uninterested, chewing a strand of grass and languid from the heat.
But Rosa appeared more interested. ‘He’s in uniform.’
Sara sat up, tumbling Mary off her stomach to peer at the dark-headed figure. She scrambled to her feet.
‘It’s - I think. Is it, Rosa?’ she gasped.
‘Go and see!’ Rosa pushed her friend forward.
Sara began to walk towards the soldier and then, as certainty dawned, she broke into a run.
Joe climbed the wall and threw his arms open as he caught sight of Sara dashing across the stubbled field. His deeply bronzed face broke into a beaming smile of delight.
‘Bellissima!’ he laughed at Sara’s dishevelled appearance and she fell against his body in a joyful embrace.
Keeping a tight hold of each other, they climbed back towards Rosa and the children.
‘It’s been so long!’ Sara clung to her husband happily. ‘Has it been terrible out there? You look grand, mind.’
‘And so do you,’ Joe kissed her again, almost sick with longing for his honey-haired wife. In the two and a half years of absence the girlish Sara had matured into an attractive woman.
Joe hardly contained his impatience to be alone with Sara, while Rosa and the children fussed over him and he gave Linda a piggy-back home, with Peter diving at his feet pretending to be a fighter pilot. But there was no privacy in the crowded flat as Anna and Elvira bustled around Joe, pressing him to eat their precious rations whilst the children begged him for stories of the war. Joe’s relief at being home for this longed-for leave was only marred by the change he saw in his father. Arturo looked so old and forlorn, as if he had lost his way in life. He showed little interest in the young grandchildren playing around his feet and asked few questions about Joe’s months of combat. When he returned from work he slumped in his corner chair and went to sleep.
‘He works hard, your papa,’ Anna made excuses for her husband’s disinterest, ‘and in that awful factory - telling him what he must do all day long.’ Joe’s mother made a dismissive gesture. ‘He is not used to that.’
Joe took comfort from his mother’s resilience and saw, with increasing admiration, how she coped with her motley household on their meagre resources. After a welcoming supper of pasta and home-baked bread, Joe shook off the fatigue that gripped him and took Sara out for a walk.
‘I thought I’d never get you alone,’ he laughed as they hurried up to the woods, unashamed in their desire for each other. Joe pulled her in to the battered allotment shed that belonged to the Kirkups and where they had played cards out of the rain so long ago.
‘What if Sam or Raymond were to come?’ Sara said bashfully.
‘They won’t,’ Joe replied, not caring and pulled the ill-fitting door shut behind them.
They made frantic love on a pile of old sacking and straw, ignoring the discomfort, then shared a cigarette and talked quietly of the past. Sara told him of her work at the hospital, of old Jacob dying and the fuss over Raymond and Nancy’s courtship.
‘Poor lad,’ Joe sighed. ‘He’s had some knocks in life.’
‘He’ll bounce back,’ Sara was sanguine. ‘Raymond always does.’
‘I hope so,’ Joe smiled. ‘He’s been a good friend to my family - Rosa told me how much he’s done while I’ve been away - little jobs here and there.’
‘I think he still likes Rosa,’ Sara mused. ‘He’s often round at the shop of an evening. But enough of Raymond,’ Sara said, snuggling against Joe, ‘tell me about the army.’
Joe was reticent about the war in the desert and Sicily, not wanting to tell her of the carnage he had witnessed, but gave her news of Tom and their growing friendship.
‘He’s gone home, too,’ Joe told her, ‘and he’s hoping to see you.’
‘I haven’t been home for such a long time,’ Sara admitted. ‘I’ve put it off that many times.’ She felt a new surge of guilt at the way she had allowed the gulf to widen between herself and her family. She could have gone before now, but had avoided doing so.
‘Because of being married to me?’ Joe asked, squinting at her through smoke.
‘They’re that narrow-minded about Italians,’ Sara tried to explain, ‘I’ve been frightened they’d turn me away. I know Mam was mad at me going off and getting wed without telling anyone - and then to a Dimarco.’
‘Tom was like that until he got to see I was just like the next lad,’ Joe reminded her. ‘I think you should go and see your mam. The longer you leave it, the harder it’ll be.’ He handed her the cigarette.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to see them…’ Sara faltered. Then, ‘Will you come with me?’ she asked quietly.
‘Aye, of course,’ Joe said, undaunted. ‘You don’t think I’d let you out of my sight for a minute of my leave do you?’ he grinned.
Sara pressed against him and kissed his face. ‘I love you so much, Joe Dimarco - and if Mam doesn’t too, I’ll not go home again.’
For the next few days, Rosa and Mary moved out of the bedroom they shared with Sara, allowing the young couple a degree of privacy. Sara took time off work and they spent a happy week of picnics on Whitton Common in the mellow September sunshine, visiting the Ritsons and Pat Slattery’s family, going to the pictures and travelling into Durham for the day to see Eb and Eleanor Kirkup and take a boat out on the river. A dance was organised at the Memorial Hall for the servicemen on leave and Joe persuaded Raymond to take Rosa, with the consent of a more tolerant Anna and an acquiescent Arturo.
The foursome were full of a happy nostalgia as they recalled the Carnival dance of four years ago.
‘My one and only big dance,’ Rosa said ruefully.
‘And I had me leg bandaged up,’ Raymond laughed.
‘I was mad because Joe was ignoring me.’ Sara nudged her husband.
‘It was you who was ignoring me!’ Joe protested.
‘Well, are you dancing now?’ Sara laughed and led him on to the dance floor.
Rosa watched them go with a stab of envy, thinking what a striking couple they made with Joe’s dark good looks and Sara’s long, shining hair. And they are so in love, Rosa thought, wondering for the hundredth time what might have been if she had followed Emilio Fella back to Italy…
Raymond, too, found it hard to watch Joe hold Sara so close on the dance floor, wishing it could be him. But Joe was one of his most generous friends and Raymond was flooded with guilt at the disloyal thought. He would never do anything to betray Joe or hurt Sara, so he forced himself to be attentive to the sad-eyed Rosa.
‘My dancing’s improved since the last time,’ Raymond broke in to her thoughts, ‘if you want to risk it.’
Rosa turned and smiled gratefully at Raymond. He was funny and kind and over the past year had matured more quickly than the other lads his age who came in to the pit canteen with their ribald remarks at the girls. A pity she had not fallen in love with Raymond four years ago instead of Emilio, she thought sadly, for she could see it was only out of kindness that he asked her to dance now. Rosa knew no respectable lad would be interested in a penniless fallen woman with an illegitimate daughter.
‘Of course I’ll risk it,’ Rosa smiled and took the arm Raymond offered.
The
dance was one of the happiest evenings of Joe’s leave, their spirits lifted by the music and dancing and no ugly scenes with Normy Bell or his former gang to spoil the occasion. The WVS served up soup and spam sandwiches in the interval.
‘You can tell the Yanks are here,’ Joe muttered. ‘All this spam.’
‘Me mam’s got an American friend,’ Raymond announced as he waded through the crowds, balancing the pink pressed meat on a plate. ‘Met him at a party in London.’
‘Will she bring him here do you think?’ Sara asked excitedly.
‘Not likely,’ Raymond snorted. ‘Probably told him she’s from somewhere posh. She said he’s from near Hollywood, so she’ll be out to impress.’
‘Shouldn’t be ashamed of where you come from,’ Sara answered.
‘I don’t think she is,’ Raymond defended his mother. ‘She just likes to make life sound more exciting than it really is.’
The four left, pink-cheeked, from the hot hall, singing popular songs and finished with a Bovril at the parlour before Raymond said his goodbyes.
‘I’ll see you when we get back from Sara’s mam’s,’ Joe told him.
‘Aye,’ Raymond nodded, hovering in the doorway. ‘Good luck with seeing your mam again, Sara,’ he added.
‘Thanks,’ Sara smiled at him gratefully. She was nervous at the prospect of meeting her family again, anxious at the reception she and Joe might receive.
‘Goodnight, Raymond,’ Rosa said with a shy smile. ‘I did enjoy the dancing.’
Raymond flushed. Ta-ra then, I’ll be off.’
As Raymond opened the door quickly Joe clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘You’re a canny lad, Raymond Kirkup - I wouldn’t mind you in the family,’ he winked.
Raymond dived away with an embarrassed grunt and Joe shut up shop, following Sara eagerly upstairs to bed.
The next day they took the bus to Stanhope early and from there to Lowbeck on a dilapidated bus crammed with school children coming to help with harvesting. After three years away Sara thought how shabby the houses in Lowbeck looked, with their peeling doors and window frames and how forlorn the rusting vans abandoned by the lower fields. They saw an antiquated threshing machine being pulled by horses and several carts and traps drawn by ponies, a sight uncommon since Sara’s early childhood.
Sara’s nervousness mounted as they walked up the valley to Rillhope and took the rough track up the steep mountainside to Highbeck and Stout House. She had decided to surprise them with the visit, but wondered now if the idea had been foolish. It had been so long since she had seen any of them; would she know what to say? Then she reminded herself she was a married woman of twenty and should not behave like a timid girl. She quickened her pace.
The first person to spot them tramping up the hill with their parcels of gifts was a tall girl with bobbed fair hair whom Sara took to be one of the land girls. She gawped at them a moment and then, dropping her pail with a clatter, raced over to greet them.
‘Sara!’ she screamed. ‘You’ve come home at last.’ And Sara found herself being enveloped by her younger sister.
‘Chrissie, you’re as tall as a beanpole,’ she cried, hugging the girl back.
‘You look grand,’ Chrissie said with admiration. ‘Tom said you might come. He’s over at the Metcalfes’ with Jane.’ She stopped, suddenly aware of Joe’s amused regard.
‘This is Joe,’ Sara introduced her husband, ‘and this is Chrissie.’
Joe took the girl’s rough hand and kissed it swiftly before she could protest. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he grinned. Chrissie giggled and went pink as she snatched her hand back.
‘Don’t try that with Mam,’ Sara warned him sharply, nervous at the thought. ‘Where is she?’
‘In the kitchen as always,’ Chrissie answered. ‘She’s looking after the bairns while Mary’s away at her mam’s - her dad’s poorly bad.’
Sara felt a guilty flush of relief that her critical sister-in-law Mary would not be around to make things more difficult for her or Joe.
‘Haway, then.’ She linked a possessive arm through Joe’s and led him up the uneven stone steps into her former home.
Her mother nearly dropped the cast-iron pan she was wielding at the black range when Sara walked in with Joe. Her mouth opened, shut and opened again in astonishment at the sight of her grown-up daughter on the arm of the tall, swarthy man in uniform. She put down the pan, her knees giving way, and crumpled into the battered armchair beside the fire.
‘Mam?’ Sara rushed forward, alarmed by the colour draining from her mother’s tired face.
‘Sara?’ she clutched at her daughter as if needing proof she was no illusion.
‘Aye, Mam, it’s me,’ Sara said, kissing her mother’s greying hair. ‘And this is Joe.’
To her dismay her mother burst into tears and Joe halted in his advance towards her. Sara stood up but Lily Pallister grasped her on the arm.
‘I’m not crying ‘cos of your Italian husband,’ she managed to say, ‘I’m just so happy to see you, pet!’
Sara put her arms around her mother and they hugged each other in relief.
Later when Lily had recovered from her shock, she sat them both down at the large kitchen table and gave them a meal of bacon and egg pie made with real eggs and gooseberry fool that had been made for Tom and scones with some of Mary’s scarce, homemade blackberry jam. At first they ate in silence as Lily watched over them and Sara cringed at the awkwardness between her mother and Joe. But when he presented her with a present of bananas he had bought in the charity auction at the dance, her frostiness thawed a fraction.
‘I can’t remember what they taste like!’ Lily cried. ‘And they used to be my favourite fruit.’
‘Sara told me,’ Joe smiled. ‘And here’s something from my mam for you.’ He handed over a bottle of rhubarb wine and a handkerchief embroidered with delicate lace. ‘And Aunt Elvira wanted you to have some leeks from her garden.’ Joe pulled a face. ‘You’ve probably got plenty, but she’s that proud of them.’
Lily looked with embarrassment at her handsome son-in-law, uncomfortable at his family’s generosity. ‘Nice of her to bother - I’ll make some leek dumplings. You can’t beat leeks grown in Whitton soil.’
When Sara attempted to help her mother clear the table, she was shooed away. ‘You’ll be wanting to visit Beth down Rillhope, no doubt. You show your lad around the farm and make yourselves scarce until tea-time.’
They went quickly, relieved that the first encounter was over and that Sara’s mother had at least been civil to Joe. They walked up the beck and onto the moors, Sara pointing out all the landmarks for miles around. Circling the farms of Highbeck they descended to Rillhope and knocked at Beth Lawson’s door as an early autumn squall hit the row of stone cottages. Beth gave them a cheery welcome and pulled them in beside her small fire.
‘You never write,’ Sara admonished her friend.
‘Can’t get paper,’ Beth answered unconcerned, stoking the smouldering fire. ‘You’ve got yourself a bonny lad, mind,’ Beth said, giving Joe a saucy look.
‘And you’ve taken up with my cousin Colin, so they say,’ Sara was equally blunt.
Beth straightened up and gave Sara one of her considering squints. ‘You’re not fond of Colin are you?’ she asked. Sara did not answer. ‘I can understand why from the tales Colin’s told me. But he was that unhappy in Whitton - he’s different here. And he’s been canny to me and the bairn. Does everything around the house - not like John Lawson.’ Beth spoke of her husband as if he were a stranger.
‘Well, you must have reformed him,’ Sara retorted, still sceptical.
‘Perhaps all he needed was to get away from your uncle,’ Joe commented, lighting a cigarette.
‘Aye,’ Beth laughed, ‘he doesn’t have a good word to say about his father or stepmother. And they don’t want anything to do with him, either, from what I can see. Not since he took up with a married woman.’ Beth chuckled.
They stayed
an hour, by which time Beth’s son Daniel had come staggering in with a pile of firewood he had been collecting with Colin. There was an awkward exchange of nods and forced greetings when Colin discovered who their visitors were. Sara could sense Joe’s tension as he faced his old adversary and she could not reconcile Beth’s glowing picture of Colin with her memory of the surly cousin who had beaten up Raymond Kirkup and joined a vigilante mob against the Dimarcos. He had certainly changed physically, looking brawny and weathered as if he had farmed all his life, but Sara found it hard to forgive him his past faults.
‘We’ll be off then.’ She rose quickly. ‘I want to see Tom.’
‘Call before you leave, won’t you?’ Beth encouraged.
‘Aye, if there’s time,’ Sara promised.
Colin and Joe exchanged looks then, quite unexpectedly, Colin held out his hand in a gesture of reconciliation. Joe’s bronzed face deepened in colour as he hesitated, then shook Colin’s hand.
Colin, unable to form the words of apology that he knew he ought to say, muttered tactlessly, ‘There’s a bunch of POWs working up at Thimble Hill - Italians.’
Joe stiffened at the words. ‘So?’
‘I’ve been working with some of them,’ Colin added. ‘They’re canny lads - always wanting to show you photos of their families. Just thought you’d be interested,’ Colin mumbled.
Joe did not reply, still suspicious that some offence had been meant. He doubted he would ever be able to fully trust a Cummings.
As they made their way home, Sara mused. ‘Fancy Colin ending up working with Italian prisoners and finding he likes them. You might have captured them in Africa.’
Joe was silent as they trudged back up the slope, a curlew crying mournfully in the wind.
‘They’re just like us,’ he said softly, ‘probably homesick and missing the wife like I was.’ He kissed the top of her head.
Sara slipped her arm around his waist and shivered in the wind. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go back so soon.’
Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies Page 43
