Women on the Home Front

by Annie Groves

  They’d all trooped upstairs to sample her new spaghetti Bolognese, sitting in silence as if they’d just been to a funeral not a cinema.

  ‘What is the matter with you all? Where is your soul? It was a happy film with a happy ending. You don’t get many happy endings in the theatre. They all die so bravely: Tosca jump off the castle, Mimi is sick. It is so sad. Giselle goes mad and the poor swan maid and her love jump into the lake. I love a good cry…you get your money’s worth of tears with opera.’

  The week before they’d been to dinner at Diana’s house, dining off bone china and silver cutlery, and Eva had cooked a strange beef dish that was delicious.

  It was a change from Maria’s own cooking but she liked it best when they came to her.

  There was always some friend of a friend-a Pole, a Ukrainian exile, off-duty nurses from the Infirmary where Ana was now working as an orderly, who joined them. It was getting a crush to fit them all in upstairs so they spilled out into the downstairs and piled the tables and chairs together.

  Eva got them knitting squares from leftover wool to make into blankets for the refugee camps. Everyone was clacking away, jabbering and gossiping. Some were thoughtful, like Lily, who brought her sugar ration. Others brought what they could spare. Maria lived for those evenings, especially when news from Moses Heights wasn’t good.

  When Marco had a bad week, she panicked and prayed. When he’d had a good week she could relax and sing, but she could always forget her troubles when the girls came round.

  She could never understand the set-up in Division Street. The women stayed on there, despite the sister-in-law who hated their guts and called their friends ‘that Olive Oil Club’. They never talked about their dead husbands in her presence. It was as if they had never existed.

  It was a strange family, not falling in and out like the Santinis, but coming and going and never meeting up together. Even dear Lily-she was supposed to be getting married soon and they’d never even met her beloved.

  One stolen pram had changed all their lives for the better. Salt and honey they might be, but they were the best mamas in Grimbleton, wanting a better life for their daughters than the hard struggle they were living now.

  Su said dancing classes made them stand tall and straight, and Madame said it grew a good ear for music and rhythm. She was impressed that all their instructions were in French: plié, arabesque, port de bras. She had cut out the article in the Mercury, showing a line of babies from the class all smiling at the camera. ‘Babies who know French before English and not yet three years old!’ They looked so cute in their uniforms, and Rosa looked the brightest of them all. Maria was picturing Rosa’s name in neon lights, shining for all the other mothers to admire, when she became aware of a man standing behind her, fingering her hair with interest, ruffling it up and examining her in the mirror.

  ‘This is good hair, madam, but too heavy. It all need big cut,’ he smiled, flashing a pair of shiny jet-black eyes over her head. She suddenly felt protective of all her hair and ashamed of daydreaming. She launched instinctively into Italian. He responded in a torrent of his mother tongue with a thick northern accent and the rest of the discussion was a rattle of questions and answers.

  Sylvio Bertorelli was from the north, from the industrial heartland, used to chimneys and smoke. He liked Grimbleton and had no desire to go home to a defeated country. He had been the barber in the camp on the moors and decided to make the best of his captivity and train himself to be a ladies’ hairdresser, and he was ambitious.

  As he was chatting, so great chunks of Maria’s hair were floating down onto the tiles.

  ‘Stop!’ she cried, wondering if there was any hair left on her head.

  ‘You wait and see. It’ll be good. Now it is easy to dress and let the curl come through. You have fine thick hair, the very best, Signora Santini. Make your husband very proud,’ he laughed, and suddenly it was easy to tell him all about Marco and his family and his chest not healing properly, and all her worries about the ice-cream parlour.

  Queenie shampooed her hair thoroughly in a sink contraption that was very efficient but looked too much like a guillotine to be restful.

  ‘I see you like our Sylvio…Quite the ladies’ man,’ whispered Queenie. ‘Poor old Gianni gets all the old dears, now everyone wants Sylvio. He did Bebe Daniels’ hair last week when they were on at the King’s. She was very pleased and tipped him five bob.’

  Maria suddenly realised she had no money for a tip. It was hard not to feel self-conscious swathed in towels and sitting still while he finger-curled and pinned coils of hair around her head with setting lotion.

  He was full of plans to go on courses in Manchester and bring the latest styles back to the mill town. ‘I do great hair, win competitions so everyone want shampoo from Sylvio’s,’ he smiled.

  His film-star looks were striking. He had one of those faces that must have fallen off a marble pillar: thick straight brows, black eyes fringed with long lashes, a wide smile and even, white teeth. He was slim but not thin, broad-shouldered, and had neat hips like a dancing man. His fingers were long, tapered and artistic. It was worth coming to the hairdresser’s just for the floor-show.

  Common sense said he would be charming with all his clients so that they would come back time and time again. Yet there was something innocent in his enthusiasm and flamboyance that reminded Maria of Rosa with a new toy, of Marco listening to the football scores on the wireless when the Grasshoppers were winning at home.

  Sylvio was used to silly women flashing their eyes at him but Maria was not going to demean herself. When she saw the results of his efforts in the mirror, however, she gasped with pleasure.

  ‘Is that really me?’ she said, staring at the transformation of the old careworn Maria, she of a hundred chores and jobs, into this young girl with soft curls framing her features and highlighting her own large brown eyes.

  ‘You like?’ he said. ‘Now we’ll see your bright eyes and long neck like swan. We can see the shape of your head, yes?’ No wonder he was looking pleased with himself.

  Queenie stood back. ‘Crikey Moses, Ria. Marco will have a new visitor tonight and all the ward’ll be jealous,’ she winked, and Maria could not resist giving Queenie a big hug.

  ‘Grazie… Thank you. I am a new woman now,’ she laughed, wanting to walk around town and savour the moment when heads turned and wondered if that was really Maria Santini.

  ‘It will need cutting every six weeks or it will all drop,’ Sylvio warned, and she nodded and promised to come back again.

  She’d meant it at the time but the weeks went on and the style was growing out and there was never any money to spend on herself. There were clothes and ballet shoes for Rosa and extra fruit for Marco. The walls needed distempering. Always something.

  Weeks later, one afternoon when she was rushed off her feet, Maria saw him sitting in the window table drawing on his cigarette, sipping a cup of cappuccino from their new chrome Gaggia steam coffee machine. He looked up when she went over.

  ‘I come to see how my new look model is doing. It is grown…’ he said, and she blushed.

  ‘I’m sorry…no time and you are expensive,’ she added.

  ‘I know but the best is expensive. However, I need plenty of practice and a model gets her hair cut free. I have ideas. Will you sit for me?’ he asked, flashing her one of his high-octane smiles. ‘I need someone with a good neck, good hair and a strong face…’ He was pleading with his eyes and she tried to stay businesslike in her reply.

  ‘That would be a fair arrangement but I work many hours. It would have to fit in. I must bring my little girl,’ she whispered in Italian, not wanting her business to be broadcast all around the town. Nonna Valentina would not approve, nor her brothers-in-law. Sylvio was not family and Santinis only worked for family.

  Her heart was thumping when she walked away. This was dangerous, this excitement, and she knew where it could lead. Only once had she slipped before D-day, when the town
was invaded with Yanks going south. There was this GI from New Jersey, one of a gang who hung out at Santini’s. He used to sing and dance and make a fool of himself and he made her laugh and forget the war. He had a roving eye and flattered her loneliness. They had gone dancing and one thing led to another, a brief encounter in Queens Park. She vowed never to betray Marco again. Then Marco came back on embarkation leave and her shame sent her to confession and back into the arms of the Church.

  She had promised the Virgin that she would be a good wife and mother, and resist temptation when it walked through the door again.

  This is just a business arrangement. She would be chaperoned by Queenie and Rosa. What harm would there be in having her hair done regularly? Customers liked to see a smart woman behind the counter. She planned to tell Marco all about this exciting venture but somehow she never got round to telling him about Sylvio’s offer.

  Somehow they always had their styling sessions when Gianni had gone home and Queenie was busy at the dancing class. Nothing improper was ever suggested but it hovered unspoken like smoke above the ceiling.

  Every time Maria decided not to go, but every time there was always some reason why she could not let him down. Sylvio was an artist and an artist needed a model.

  She felt so exposed when he washed her hair and she was lying backwards in his hands. He always smelled of cologne, and his hands were gentle but firm, massaging her head. How she ached for the touch of a man on her neck, even if it was only his hand with a towel.

  He sat so close to her when he styled and trimmed her hair she could feel his warm breath in her ear.

  Sometimes she took Rosa along but she only fingered all the trays of curlers and brushes and distracted her from sitting still, fearful of some accident with scissors. This would have to stop.

  Yet everybody was commenting on the transformation, especially when she began to treat herself to a few sample lipsticks and pots of foundation cream. She found new earrings to dangle and show off her style. When strangers in the café asked who did her hair she gained solace in advertising Sylvio’s skills. The thought of letting someone else be his model was unthinkable. The dates of their sessions were ringed on her calendar with crosses like kisses. The very thought of those meetings set her heart thudding with anticipation. She tried not to think of them as assignations but why did Romeo and Juliet keep coming into her head?

  There was no time to think about Sylvio’s hands on her neck, his burning eyes and the stirrings so deep in her groin when she thought of kissing him. It was mortal sin, it was madness, but these wicked thoughts warmed her cold bed better than any hot-water bottle. I must be strong, she thought, knitting in the waiting room. Just one more row, she thought.

  ‘Wake up, Maria,’ whispered Ana as she picked up the knitting off the floor. She was here to collect Joy from the rehearsal. ‘You were far away.’

  ‘Eh?’ She jumped up. ‘I fall asleep over my knitting. I am getting old,’ she sighed, gathering the wool into her shopping bag.

  ‘You are too much on your feet. When you sit you sleep,’ Ana replied as the girls came spilling out of the studio, closely followed by their teacher, who beckoned the two of them into the studio, away from the other mothers.

  ‘I have decided to make Rosaria one of my Babes in the Wood. She’ll need a long dress,’ she smiled, pushing paper sketches into their hands. ‘They all do their mime well and are reliable. I don’t think they will freeze in the spotlight. We will do extra rehearsal for them,’ she added, and as they went back into the waiting room there was a frisson of jealousy as the little dancers were wrapped up against the winter cold.

  It is a sign if I am good then my child will do well, Maria smiled. This is my reward. Rosa’s talent was already showing and she would have the brightest, prettiest dress she could find.

  Ana beamed with pride. ‘I knew Rosa was a good dancer,’ she said, and then, looking at Joy, they both paused. ‘What will I tell Su? She will have to help make clothes.’

  ‘You could ask Lily to help you. Poor Joy, she will be disappointed.’

  Joy skipped ahead down the stairs, unawares until she stopped on the bottom step, turned round and gave them all a beckoning call with her hand, very exaggerated but the meaning was clear.

  ‘Look at me, this is how you do it. Miss Lip-rot says I am number one robin. I go first and when you lie down I cover you with leaves, very slowly, and then I bring in all the baby robins. Miss Lip-rot says I’m a star. I have note for my mummy.’ She looked at them, producing a piece of paper from her pocket.

  ‘Is this true?’ said Maria to Rosa, who was jumping down the steps as fast as she could.

  ‘Yes. Joy is first robin because she’s fat and robins have round tummies,’ said Rosa with a sneer.

  ‘Shush. That is not kind,’ Maria said, trying not to smile at the truth of her words.

  Ana looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  Later that week Maria sat with Marco in the wings of the theatre, watching the dress rehearsal as the lights flashed around the stage and her child tiptoed through the make-believe forest in a flurry of bright pink satin edged with cream lace. It was Rosa’s Cousin Angelika’s first communion dress, cut down, dyed and trimmed with lace stained in tea. Rosa looked a little angel. It had taken all of Marco’s strength to climb the stairs to watch the rehearsals. They held hands as tears rolled down their cheeks, tears of pride. Rosa was so young and yet so confident on stage. They saw no other child but her.

  ‘One day she will be a star,’ Marco whispered. ‘Santini girls can be as good as boys, you’ll see. I’ll give Rosaria what she needs: sequins, bouquets and encores. Then everyone will be proud, yes?’ he said, smiling.

  Maria nodded and kissed his cheek. ‘You are so right,’ she replied, knowing it would take all of her hard work to make this dream come true.

  15

  The Miracle Cure

  If Levi patted her bottom one more time she would whack him like Auntie Betty used to beat the mali from the veranda. Ana had warned about his wandering hands but Su was never quick enough to swerve away.

  ‘Oops,’ he mocked. ‘You are such a tiny lass but in proportion. No wonder our Freddie took a fancy to you.’ His eyes were sludgy grey, nothing like Mister Stan’s blue sapphires.

  How silly and naïve she felt, so gullible like some stupid loose woman. Why did she stay on in this cold country and take these insults? She realised now that Stan had never intended them to marry. He was like all the other thakin who kept their mistresses happy with false promises, lengths of silk, but now it was as if he had never existed and in his place was this fool.

  I am the daughter of a British man with a proper English name, she thought. No one can take my passport from me, but still she was treated as some foreigner. Customers gaped at her but she would never give them the satisfaction of seeing her discomfort.

  She liked the stall and the bustle of the market, the smell of the potions and herbs, and the foreign-sounding names on the boxes of herbs reminded her a little of the great markets of Burma with spices all the colours of the rainbow. In a town of soot and engine oil, fish-and-chip fat and fog, their stall smelled of sunshine and faraway places.

  She had a good eye and ear, and was quick to improve her knowledge; what to give to whom and how much and when to ask for help. Levi knew his herbs from his roots and spices, but he was cheating Daw Esme and that worried Su.

  There was a box of dried leaves on the top of the store cupboard that they were not allowed to bring down for dusting or to serve. It was a box regularly emptied and refilled but no accounts of its sales were ever kept in the books. Levi insisted that he alone must dispense this remedy and she wondered what sort of powerful medicine it was. They were allowed to portion it out into tiny packets so it must be very efficacious.

  ‘What’s this for?’ she had asked Lily one Saturday.

  ‘It must be one of Winstanley’s cure-alls, a secret recipe handed down from father to son, I expect.�
� Lily sniffed at it, turning up her nose at the smell. ‘Something soothing and cooling, I expect, or something to loosen the joints. We get a lot of call for rheumatics round here…’ she added.

  ‘It may be a special potion for floppy dicks,’ Su whispered. ‘That is why only a man serves it. Business is good for it.’

  ‘Susan!’ Lily was blushing and giggling. ‘It’s the cold that’s bringing in customers.’

  ‘So why doesn’t the sale go down in the book?’ She was curious how much Lily knew.

  ‘Levi has his own system with special customers and his regulars, and is very particular about serving them. You’ll soon recognise them,’ Lily smiled, and turned back to her packaging.

  His regulars were a strange bunch, not the sort of customers who usually came to the herbal store: smart ladies in large brimmed hats, wanting remedies for headaches, constipation, skin complaints and neuralgia, ‘old biddies’, as Levi called them, with swollen ankles and bunions, who needed tonics and remedies for flatulence and bladder control. Then there came vegetarians, who bought special tins of nut cutlets and vitamin drops, and old men in mufflers wanting tonics for chests and aching joints.

  Levi’s specials were younger men in long mackintoshes and no hats, sometimes wearing berets and bicycle clips, ex-soldiers with war wounds and scars, the coloured man who played drums in Toni Santini’s billiard hall and American bar off Mealhouse Lane. There were toughies with cold fish eyes, who undressed her with their stares.

  They came only when Levi was on shift. Money was exchanged and packets were handed over and not a penny of it went in the till. Her curiosity was aroused until one day she asked him outright, ‘What is this stuff?’

  ‘A special tobacco to ease the joints,’ he answered, not looking at her for once when he spoke.

  ‘Shouldn’t it go in the book?’ she continued, trying to catch his eye.

  ‘No need for you to bother your pretty little head with any of this. I’ll deal with it in my own way. I like to deal with these customers direct. It is strictly my business so no more questions,’ he said, dismissing her curiosity.