The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  Feeling a bit guilty, I say: “Zia, I’m only just getting on top of things. You know, I had the flat to look after, the family and work...”

  “You can no make minute for you Zia.”

  I feel fleeting pity for her. She has aged so much. Such a thin face. I might not have recognised her, if I’d passed her in the street. I am her only niece. She has some on her husband’s side of the family, but they mean nothing to her.

  “Of course, I will make more of an effort in future, Zia, I promise.”

  “And you keep promise for Zia.”

  I nod. We go on talking for a while about our families. She’s very interested and wants to know everything about my new grandson. Then we talk about neighbours. She tells me an Italian family from Naples lives on one side and an English family on the other. Zia doesn’t have much to do with the English family, while she’s great friends with the Italian lady, when they are not squabbling. “Napoli is not Sicilia,” Zia says. Nobody is superior to Sicilians in Zia’s view of the world. A blessed island.

  I shouldn’t have told her, but given it’s been niggling me, I spurt out the bike incident.

  “Zia, I’ve had a little problem with one of the residents...”

  “You live posh house. You no have problem.”

  “Unfortunately, some people behave like children.”

  She doesn’t look up, concentrates on her knitting until I tell her about the insulting graffiti. She stops knitting.

  “Minghia! They call you arsehole?” she asks raising her voice. “Nobody call daughter of my poor sister bucu du culu!”

  “Exactly. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “And you no break big bastardo face? You know we have cousin, picciotti...”

  “Zia, I don’t even know who it is.”

  “We no kill. But we make revenge.”

  I look at her, “What?!”

  “You give him my cake, give him big diarrhoea. He shit for one army.”

  “Zia, are you putting laxative into cakes? I don’t believe it...”

  “You no believe because you Englishwoman. You marry Englishman. You read book. I tell you, you find this man. I make special cake for him.”

  The door bell rings. Zia goes to see who it is from behind the net curtain, “Ah, Bella and Rosa,” she says, looking directly at me, “they du big bagasci, my husband Tony two niece.”

  When they come in through the door, Zia embraces them as if they are two long-lost sisters, “Bella! Rosa! Trasi, trasi. I wait for you. I make special eclair for you.”

  Amongst all the greeting and shouting coming from all directions, I take advantage of the confusion, say I need to go and cook dinner, bid the ladies ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’ Zia grabs me by the arm and says: “Yes, you come back tomorrow. You keep promise for Zia. I have friend. She have problem, she need you help.” Then she shoves a couple of eclairs in my hand, wrapped in aluminium foil, for Humps.

  FOUR

  Tuesday 22nd August – late afternoon

  On my way back home, I start musing about being caught between two cultures. Frustration overcomes me. How many times do they have to voice their disdain at my being English? Why can’t they simply accept it? Like I accept that most of the other second generation Sicilians are closer to their roots. They go to mass on Sundays and are devious the rest of the week. I am atheist like my father. My relatives go back to The Village nearly every summer. I haven’t been for over four decades. This distancing of mine irks them. Obviously, there is resentment there. Some put it down to the fact that my mother died when I was young. I went astray from there. That is total rubbish. Long before that, I had taken the decision to be English, when I was about twelve, or even before. I don’t remember exactly. But I do know that I can’t think of a time when I wanted to be like them.

  And Auntie Marge’s influence contributed to that. She wasn’t my auntie at all, nor was her husband my Uncle Peter. They were our English next door neighbours. She looked after me. She and Zia were the nearest I had to a mother. I could identify with Auntie Marge and her husband. And I wanted to be part of their way of life. I wanted to marry an Englishman. An educated man. Like Uncle Peter. Not one of the rough boys in our community, though they weren’t all like that. I wanted to get away from their arguing, backstabbing, aggression and dodgy doings. I wanted to be part of something else.

  Maybe it wasn’t necessary to go as far as I did. But once I’d started, I got more and more determined. See how far I could get. It’s astounding what you can do when you set your mind to it. I marched straight on resolutely towards my new life, looking neither left nor right. During university, and particularly after I graduated in English, I got myself a posh accent. Did it all by myself. Imitated the BBC newsreaders. Spoke more slowly. Got my vowels right. Pronounced my consonants properly. Was I going to teach English in my broad cockney? I don’t think so.

  I stepped it up: read The Times, The Economist and, every now and then, even the Financial Times. I knew who all the politicians were, who was trying to backstab whom, who had safe seats and which seats could be toppled at the next election. I knew the names of prominent foreign leaders, kept abreast of how they interacted, who was doing what and why. I was like Alice in Wonderland. And, to top it all, shame on me, I even joined the Conservative party. Went to their dinners and acted all la-di-da like them. Any awkward questions about my past were sidelined by vague answers, and quickly followed by a question which I knew would flatter their egos. That transferred the focus onto them and, from then on, it was plain sailing. They loved talking about themselves. And my interest in their lives seemed to be second to none.

  Though I looked and sounded the part, there were some gaps in my behaviour I needed to tweak: not interrupting people while they were talking, not flaring up when I disagreed with someone (which happened frequently), feigning interest when they bored me (which also happened frequently), and not appearing too forward. My manners were soon honed to perfection. I quickly learnt which cutlery was used for what, which glasses were for wine, water, port... What to do with my napkin. All looked confusing at the start, but it turned out you didn’t have to be awfully clever to understand it. In fact, you could be quite thick, like some of them, and understand it. At these events, I met the narrow-minded and conceited Mr. Collinses, and the tiresome garrulous Mrs. Bennets of this world. But, contrastingly, it was also where I met my Mr. Darcy.

  I had already noticed him at other events. On this particular occasion he came bowling over to me while I was speaking to an elderly lady about her cello. She didn’t budge, so Humps had to listen to her as well. Then he had to leave because he had an appointment. Anyway, we got each other’s names. At the next event, he was there dressed in black looking drop-dead gorgeous. He had a polo-neck tucked into his trousers. And good quality brown leather belt, and cow-boyish boots. Jesus. The black set off his green eyes, his dark blonde hair was longish and swept back. He had that confidence expensive public schools gave you. My heart was in my mouth when I saw him making a beeline for me. This time I was alone. He towered over me. I’m five-foot-six, he about six-foot-two, I guessed. We went to sit at a table. After we’d spoken about the weather, he started telling me about his job in banking, and about his family; their country pile in Surrey and their barge on the Thames. While he was talking, I was thinking that, given a chance, I’d have him there-and-then under the table. “How lovely,” I said, nodding and smiling.

  Meeting Humps was the best thing that had happened in my life. I was enthused by his attentions. Tried to make myself as attractive as possible using money my mother had left me. I put a lot of time in making myself look tip-top. And I thoroughly enjoyed the whole process. But I also made a point of forgetting about my appearance once I’d taken a last look in the mirror upon leaving home. Before dates with Humps, I’d go to a chic salon and have my long black hair styled differently each time. I bought plenty of designer clothes in stark and dark colours, and had great fun combining them. Shoes.
Only leather. With heels. I wore the best make-up and French perfume.

  When things got serious he took me to meet his parents. By then, I had nobody to introduce him to. I was the whole of my family. I admit that must have seemed quite suspicious to his parents. As I always did to start off with, I told them that my parents were Italian. “Sicilian,” Humps added. “And do you speak Sicilian?” his mother, Penelope, asked me.

  “Yes, I do. It’s the only language, dialect actually, that I spoke up to the age of five before I went to school.” She was visibly shocked. Probably thinks that all Sicilians are mafiosi. Which is rubbish. Not all Sicilians have the ability. To thrive in the mafia, you have to be laser-sharp, especially if you want to make it all the way up to a boss. Even the picciotti need to make on-the-spot decisions.

  Humps’s father, Jacob, took to me like fish to water. Penelope hated me from the moment she set sight on my curvaceous figure and shapely legs. I was wearing a smart electric-blue Armani suit, the pencil skirt came to about two inches above my knee. High-heeled beige Italian designer shoes. Dark red lipstick, and nail varnish, which set off my long dark hair and brown eyes. Men loved my Italian looks. I wasn’t going to try looking like an Englishwoman. I couldn’t even if I’d tried. Penelope looked me up and down with a slight hint of disdain.

  But she was no threat to me, I’d already given Humps the whole tantalising, Sophia-Loren corset and black stockings jingbang, like in the film. And one Sunday, we spent the whole day in bed. To save time we had cheese panini in bed for lunch, then made love on the crumbs. There’s a lot to be said for long wet British Sundays. Humps knew there was plenty more where all that came from. Then, to top it all, we were intellectual equals. We could talk and laugh for hours. Penelope didn’t stand a chance. She could stick her nose up at me as much as she wanted. I took little notice of her. Concentrated on Humps, Jacob, and Humps’s sister, Fiona, instead. Stupid Penelope. I could have had her barge burnt to ashes before she could say croissant. Even if it was surrounded by water. Poor Jacob probably only got a quick fumble around in the dark while his no-tits wife lay back and thought of England.

  Fiona was nice. But she was frumpy. Hair the same colour as Humps’s but straight, and lanky. As far as good looks and intellect were concerned, Humps, as first born, had got there first and taken all the good features in those departments that his parents could afford. Fiona was self-conscious, a constant nail-biter. I decided that flat-sandals-and-socks, Fiona, would be my matron of honour. She was delighted. And so was I. Not that I needed a young woman like that to set off my good looks. I made sure we decided the wedding day would be in September. When Zia and Susi would be on holiday in Sicily. Can you imagine Susi there, running after every suit, and Zia shouting minghia at anything she thought nice? Amongst all those toffs? And, what with my mother dead and my father out of my life, there was nobody at our wedding on my side of the family. I didn’t even want any university friends there, in case they let out some stupid comment.

  That stopped Humps’s family from knowing about my relatives. Not even Humps knew about our links to the mafia. He might not have married me, if he’d had an inkling. But he was well and truly cooked. Say what you like about Italians but they know a thing or two about culinary skills. Anyway, what did Penelope have to complain about? It was partly her own fault for making her son such a sexy and clever devil. Notwithstanding the stupid Christian name they’d given him. I ask you. He was anything but a Humphrey.

  FIVE

  Tuesday 22nd August – evening

  Humps arrives home from work. I go and give him a passionate kiss.

  “Did you have a good day, darling?” he asks.

  “Oh, yes. Though quite uneventful. Had a lovely walk down the towpath. Did some shopping on the way back. And, what do you know? I went across London, and popped in to see Zia, too.”

  “What a surprise! Well, I’d never have guessed that. Going to visit your family now, are you? After all you went through?” He seems a little uneasy.

  “Oh, darling, don’t worry it was my mother and Peppina who abused me. Zia’s always been kind to me.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re very worryable about. So what brought that on?”

  “Well, it was Susi who insisted I go to see her mother.”

  “I’ve never felt the need to embrace your family connections. And you’ve never insisted, but that’s fine by me. How is she?” Humps asks.

  “Ah, very well. She’s got lots of life in her yet. She has more energy than me,” I laugh.

  “Must be getting on now. How old is she?”

  “She’s eighty-seven.”

  “So what does she do to pass the time these days?”

  “You know, she has lots of visitors. The whole female population of the Sicilian community seems to waltz in and out of her house. Always has the kettle on.”

  “You said she used to make some bloody top-notch cakes, if my memory serves me well.”

  “Yes, your memory serves you very well, Humps. She made chocolate eclairs this morning. Can you believe that? Here, she gave me a couple for you.”

  Bless him, he was about to take one.

  “Not until after dinner. It’ll spoil your appetite,” I say.

  “It’s you who spoils my appetite by not letting me eat what I want.”

  We laugh and hug.

  “And how was your day, darling?” I ask.

  “Busy as usual. One of our big clients is playing up. He reckons he can get much better returns on his investments than he does with us managing his portfolio. He’s been told that by some quack.”

  “Do you think he’ll go?”

  “No knowing what he’ll do, Mary. He’s done well over the years. Hope he comes to his senses. If he goes, he’ll probably invest it in some dodgy scheme and lose it all.”

  “Oh, dear,” I say. “That would be a great shame.”

  “I’ll do what I can to stop him. But, ultimately, it’s up to him.”

  SIX

  Wednesday 23rd August – morning

  Determined to find out who’d written that insult, I figure out that I’d have to circulate where I can bump into the other residents. While sitting quietly, on a bench in the communal garden reading a new novel, I am keeping an eye on the bike-store. The heavy wrought-iron gates to the complex open and Charlie drives his 4x4 monster in. He parks in the only space left. Next to our Mercedes. The garages were designed so badly, you can’t get a big car in them. So I keep my VW Golf in ours. We wave to each other. Charlie lives on the third floor, just below us, with his wife Sarah and two children. He is a property developer and was involved in building this very complex we live in. They’ve been here since it was built in the late 1990s.

  “Hi, Charlie, how’s everything?” I ask.

  “Trundling along,” he says, “Busy as usual. And how are you and Humphrey?”

  “We’re fine, thanks. Listen, Charlie, I wanted to show you something. It’ll only take a moment.”

  I walk towards the bike-store and he follows, like an obedient poodle.

  “You see, someone’s drawn this pretty picture here and accompanied it with a sophisticated caption. It’s directed at Humps. We’ve decided not to move his bike.”

  He shakes his head. “Surprising what fully-fledged adults can do. Look, don’t worry, leave your bike here. I’ll see to this unacceptable behaviour.”

  “You must know who it is,” I say, “it was the person at the AGM who insisted we move our bikes. You were there.” He doesn’t answer.

  Because we are not invited to the AGM, when changes are made, I usually get information second-hand from Sarah. Charlie takes a picture with his phone, says he is sorry, and that he’ll have a circular sent round to all the residents. He leaves. I go back to the garden bench with my book. About twenty minutes later, Sarah appears. She comes and sits next to me. We discuss the weather and the book I am reading. A man comes out of the bike-store, waves at her from a distance. “Hello, Richard,” she
says as she waves.

  “Good morning, Sarah. Off for a ride while the sun’s shining – strike while the sun’s hot and all that. What-O.” Mounts his bike and cycles off.

  “He never speaks to me,” I say. “He’s always been stand-offish.”

  “Good old Dicky doesn’t hide his feelings. He can’t abide foreigners, never has done. He’s a staunch Leaver.”

  It soon dawns on me that I am the foreigner!

  “What!” I say. “I’m not a foreigner. I’ve got a British passport. I was born here! Was I supposed to get a taxi to Heathrow and a flight to Italy at one day old?”

  She laughs at that.

  “He’s a great fan of Farage’s. He did a lot of campaigning for Brexit in the run-up to the referendum last year. He even came canvassing us, though he was preaching to the converted.”

  “Well, he didn’t knock on our door.”

  “He wouldn’t what with you being Ital... You know what I mean, having Italian parents...”

  So, that’s how they see me. An outsider – not one of them. She tries to make amends. “Hey, you beguiled Humphrey with your Mediterranean looks. Everyone says you’re a looker, even now you’re in your early sixties.” It gets worse. “Must be all that olive oil... Um, I came down to say I’m sorry about the bike incident. Charlie just got home and told me about it. Richard shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Richard!”

  “Yes, didn’t you know? Sorry, I’ve opened my big mouth again and put my foot in it. I thought you knew.”