The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  THIRTEEN

  Saturday 26th August – early evening

  Time to go to Giusy’s. The last customer is about to leave as I walk in. Giusy is giving the lady her change and a few sachets of something or other. Free samples? The customer gives me a sharp look and leaves without saying anything. Giusy and I are the only two left in the shop. Locking up Giusy says: “How much are we cutting off?”

  “We could have an inch off, I suppose.” Then looking around me, I say: “You’ve done up this place nicely.”

  “Yeah, I’m happy with the way it’s turned out. There’s lots of hairdressers round here, you know, I gotta fight for me customers. You’ve gotta be a better stylist, listen to the ladies, give ’em what they want.”

  “Never easy when you’re dealing with the public. People can be difficult,” I say.

  “Think I told ya Alberto paid for a big part of the decoration. I’m giving him a percentage of the profits back. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be making as much. It was old and scruffy before. Even if you’re the best stylist in town, women think you’re no good if the shop looks miserable. Now I got more customers ’cos they think I earned all the money used in doing the place up.”

  We laugh about it.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Not so bad. That stuff Zia gave me’s a bit sickly and that’s on top of morning sickness! But if I can get what I want, it’s worth it. I’m not giving Alberto up. I tried before I got pregnant, but I always took him back. Now I’ve got this far, nothing’s gonna stop me. When I see him I melt like butter. I can’t resist him. He’s just the perfect guy for me.”

  She dries my hair with a warm towel. As she pulls, trying to get the tangles out, she says: “I went round his house last night. I think what done it for me was seeing you in here yesterday. You’re fighting for me so I thought I should fight meself, for what I want. On top of that I was fired up by Zia’s potion.”

  “Oh, God. You shouldn’t have gone to his house. What happened when you got there?”

  “Alberto wasn’t in. His wife said I didn’t have no right to be there. She said I was trying to destroy her family, and Alberto couldn’t care less about me. She says he’s had loads of women, but I was the only one stupid enough to get meself pregnant. And that he’s having an affair with the manageress in his arcade.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m afraid, the manageress bit seems to be true. I went in there yesterday, and he was whispering sweet things in her ear. It was obvious something’s going on there...”

  “I couldn’t give a fig. I’m not getting rid of the baby like that bitch of his wife told me to.”

  By now Giusy had raised her voice, while angrily snipping away at my hair. I was hoping I’d have some hair left before going home!

  “Erm, you’ve cut enough off now, Giusy.”

  She didn’t hear me. And went on.

  “Anyway, I’d never have an abortion. I’m Catholic.”

  But not Catholic enough not to have an affair with a married man, it seems.

  “And I’m gonna make him leave that manageress bitch, an’ all. She don’t know what she’s got coming to her.”

  “I know it’s difficult for you but you really shouldn’t get so wound up in your condition. It won’t do the baby any good.”

  Giusy won’t be budged.

  “Alberto’s gonna give me baby his name. He says he’s never loved any one like he loves me, and can’t wait for the baby to be born. He says in a few more months we’re gonna do the baby room up in me flat. He’s gonna marry me, mark me words. Manageress ain’t such a big problem. I’ll scratch her eyes out if I have to.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Giusy. You need to calm down. You can’t think straight when you’re as angry as you are. I came here to say I want to help you.”

  “Yeah, but I need to help meself as well. I can’t just sit back.”

  “I’ll go and speak to Alberto if you agree. Find out what his intentions are. You can trust me, I was a teacher for years. I’m used to trying to solve issues between warring factions. I’ll come back and tell you what he says. He’s probably not aware of how stressed out you are.”

  “I’ll do anything to have Alberto to meself,” she says. “Anything.”

  “In the meantime, you do nothing. Agreed? You don’t approach his wife, you don’t approach the manageress. And you don’t argue with Alberto. You behave with him as you did the first day you met him. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  She finishes styling my hair. Shorter than I wanted, but it looks quite good. The style suits me. Although I insist profusely, she does not take any money from me.

  “You and Zia are me friends. You’re helping me. Friends don’t pay.”

  “I’ll be back soon,” I say as I leave.

  FOURTEEN

  Saturday 26th August – evening

  Humps has already got dinner ready. He always cooks at weekends. On Saturday evenings, after his afternoons playing tennis, it is cold meat, salad and boiled potatoes. What has changed is the time, eight o’clock, way past his Englishman’s habit of dining at six-thirty.

  “Your hair looks nice.”

  “Thanks, darling, I’m glad you like it. New hairdresser.”

  He isn’t bothered.

  “Got the ice-creams for tomorrow from Zia. They’re in the freezer.”

  “Cassata, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to that,” he says.

  “Darling, I was just thinking, about Brexit, could we please keep off the subject tomorrow?”

  “I’ll try, but if others bring it up, I’m not backing down. I’ll say what I think. It’s not good for banking, and it’s our livelihood we’re talking about.”

  “But you’ll be retiring in a few years. And the government’s not going to be influenced by anything that’s said in the garden tomorrow – even though you’re right,” I slip in quickly.

  “I know but that won’t stop me airing my views. And, I’m not retiring for a long time.”

  “If it makes you happy, you just go on working until your heart’s content. The cottage and chalet will have to wait.”

  Now that I’ve started enjoying my retirement, I don’t want him making demands on my time. I have space. Other women have told me they hate having their husbands moping around the house.

  “I hope you’re not going to bring up that bike-story tomorrow,” he says.

  “I might have to.”

  “It looks like I’ll be arguing with them about Brexit, and you’ll be getting up their noses about those bikes,” he says.

  “Nothing more probable. We’re going to be really popular, aren’t we?”

  We laugh.

  “I noticed a teddy bear on your dressing-table, did you buy it for Benjamin?”

  “Oh, yes... No. I won it.”

  “Oh. Where?”

  “At an amusement arcade. We’ll be seeing little Benjamin next weekend.”

  “You’re a bundle of surprises. Can’t imagine you in an amusement arcade. Don’t know what Shakespeare’d say about that.”

  “He’d say, ‘For I can raise no money by vile means,’” I say, lifting my arm and bringing it down again in an arching movement.

  “You raised no money, but you got a bear.” He laughs.

  “Not a good deal, it would have cost me a tenth, if I’d bought it in John Lewis.”

  “John Lewis wouldn’t sell a tacky bear like that.”

  “Gee, thanks. And how did your tennis go?” I ask.

  “I lost as usual. Can’t run around any more like those young ones snapping at my heels.”

  “Never mind,” I say, “we’ll win tomorrow!”

  FIFTEEN

  Sunday 27th August

  The Sunday papers are full of the Labour Party coming out for Soft Brexit. No hope now that Brexit isn’t going to cause friction during the barbecue. “Come on, let’s go down and see what’s happening,” I say.

  “Ah,
Humphrey old chap,” Richard says, fiddling about with spare ribs and sausages, when he sees us coming.

  Don’t mind me, I think, who am I to be taken notice of?

  “Nice sunny day for our yearly jaunt, what?” Humps says.

  Soon others come down, including jolly-hockey-sticks Barbara – Richard’s wife. She sees Sarah and shouts with glee, “Oh, Sarah, darling, aren’t we simply lucky, such a sunny day.” They kiss each other on both cheeks, like continentals. Barbara looks over at me and says hello.

  By then, Ruth and Ian, from the first floor, have appeared, too. Barbara walks over to them. Humps is talking to Charlie, so I think I’ll go and keep Richard company.

  “Those spare ribs and skewers look delicious,” I say, “but on a hot day like this they shouldn’t be exposed to the sun.”

  Barbara looks around at us to see what is going on.

  “On a jolly hot day like this, meat shouldn’t be exposed to the sun. Salmonella.” I say. Upon hearing that last word a few heads turn round, including Humps’s: “What?” Humps says.

  “Salmonella,” I repeat, in a louder voice, smiling.

  Richard says something about the meat marinating and being covered, and the fire not being ready.

  I put on my most severe serious teacher face, lift my chin slightly, cross my arms and stand with my feet apart. The telling-off position. “Richard, do you know anything about the writing on the wall in the bike-store above Humphrey’s bike?” I tilt my head to the left a little, arch my eyebrows meaning: I am waiting for an answer. No reply. Richard goes red and concentrates on the marinating ribs.

  “Richard, I know it was you. I’m not too fussed about being called an arsehole. You should have heard what some kids called me when I was teaching at grotty comprehensives. Oh, they were vicious, those kids. Hadn’t been taught how to behave properly. But I will not, repeat WILL NOT, have you calling Humphrey an arsehole. Do you understand that, Richard?”

  He doesn’t answer, just scoffs. Says he has to get on with the grill and can’t talk to me. “Dash it!” he says as a greasy rib slips from his hand.

  “I expect that writing to be removed by the time I visit the bike-store again!”

  That will do for the time being. Give him time to soak up what I’ve said to him.

  So I saunter over to Barbara and Sarah. “Such a jolly day,” I say, mimicking Barbara. “Excellent,” Sarah says.

  “Just been talking to Richard about his scribbling arsehole on the bike-store wall,” I say, looking Barbara straight in the eye and smiling.

  I always found that exposure, recounting events, helped when I was dealing with children at school.

  “Oh,” Barbara says.

  “Oh, yes,” I say.

  “By the way, where are the Spanish couple from the fifth floor? Aren’t they coming?”

  “I don’t think they could make it,” Sarah says.

  “That’s a great pity,” I say. “But never mind, if they can’t, they can’t. Oh, I must go and check up on the dessert.”

  “What is it?” Sarah asks.

  “Ice-cream. But it’s special ice-cream. Needs attention.” By now they must think me bonkers. I could just hear them: “That mad Italian woman...” They whisper together about me as I storm off. Yes, they don’t like plain speaking, especially at a social occasion. Everything has to always be hunky-dory – shove it under the carpet if it’s unsettling.

  The Spanish couple are in. I tell them the Riverside residents are having the yearly barbecue today in the garden. We’d be delighted if they cared to join us. “What now?” they ask (I knew they hadn’t been invited). “Yes, right now.” Pablo goes briefly and comes back with a bottle of red wine in his hand, then he and Consuelo come down with me. What an absolutely spiffing party this is going to be.

  The young Spanish couple haven’t been at the residence long. This is their first August. I take them to meet Richard. “Do you know Richard?” I ask the couple.

  “Not very well,” Pablo says, “we have seen each other from a distance.”

  “Richard, this is Consuelo, and this is Pablo.”

  I believe it is the done thing to introduce from the low to the high. The couple’s arrival closes off Brexit talk, such a relief. I overheard Humps saying “It’s all a bloody shambles.” Humps is getting hot under his shirt collar.

  “Maybe we should put off talking about foreigners until there aren’t any around,” I say, “though that won’t be easy. Too many of us here now.”

  It is soon time to get the ice-creams. I give Sarah’s portion one squirt, Barbara’s two, and Richard’s three. Then I give Richard’s an extra squirt for the Spanish couple. I’m sure they’d agree if they knew. Taking the ice-creams out of the box, I am careful to give everyone their correct portion. Sarah asks if she can help. “No, it’s fine. Why don’t you top up glasses?” I say. Sarah’s children want to give out the plates. We start a game of ‘this is for Ruth, this is for Ian’ etc. They love it. “...and this one’s for Richard.”

  Compliments soon fly around about just how jolly delicious the ice-creams are.

  SIXTEEN

  Monday 28th August

  Bank holiday Monday begins with heaps of housework. I am running around the house all morning. In contrast to my recent past, I am quite energetic. That’s because I want to get as much done as I can, before going to Zia’s in the afternoon to take back her ice-box and syringe. I don’t want Humps to see that syringe. He might put two and two together. Also, I know Angelina and Provvi are going to Zia’s this afternoon, and I want to hear about what’s happening on that front.

  After lunch, I leave Humps to load the dishwasher, as usual. He tells me he needs peace because he has to catch up on computer work. I tell him I won’t be in the way as I am going out.

  “Zia’s, I suppose.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Do compliment her about the dessert.”

  “Yes, I will. They loved it. Sarah’s kids had second helpings, even though those ice-creams were more for the adult palate than children’s,” I say.

  Humps disappears into his office.

  While walking along the Thames, and seeing children with ice-creams, memories came back to me about eating Wall’s dairy ice-cream in wafers sitting on a wooden bench in Auntie Marge’s garden, when I was a child. Her cats would silently circle around us, or they’d lazily stretch out on the lawn. She taught me the names of flowers, what was weed and what wasn’t. She had apple, pear and plum trees. We’d pick the fruit and bake it into cakes together. My favourite was apple crumble. I loved plunging my hands into the mixture, the soft feel of flour, and rubbing the melting butter between my fingers.

  Sometimes we’d go for walks along the river bank, much as I am doing today on my own. We’d sit on benches under the willows and watch the boats go by. Auntie would often bring a picnic, little pork pies, cocktail sausages, crisps, nuts, and fruit. When the weather was hot she took me swimming at what were then called ‘The Baths,’ which have long since been dismantled and covered in concrete to make way for a slip road. Occasionally, I was allowed to bring a school friend along. But Auntie didn’t like the girls from the council estate. She thought them common, and wouldn’t abide girls smoking. Although I loved her to bits, she could be a grumpy old so-and-so – it surfaced frequently. Apart from me, she had no friends at all. I don’t remember anyone going to her house, except for her two sisters, when they came down from the north. And a man, Charlie, who used to appear on Sundays for lunch. I never did understand his connection.

  She’d tell me stories about the war, how she loved dancing. I distinctly remember her saying that she couldn’t care less what a boy looked like, as long as he was a good dancer like her. She must have been very pretty when young, because she was still attractive even then when she was about sixty.

  We moved in next door to her when I was four. She told me how she’d often heard me crying. But one evening it got so bad that she felt obliged to kno
ck on our door. There was no answer. She went round to the back door, which was unlocked, let herself in and walked in the direction of my screaming. She said I was in a desperate state “weeping my heart out.” It was about some medicine I wouldn’t take. And I was being hit because of it. I was lying on my bed kicking my feet. My cheeks, Auntie said, were bright red from slaps. She was horrified. She wiped my tears and my nose.

  When I was four-and-a-half I started school. I remember lagging behind my mother when walking along the pavement. She was holding my hand and yanking my arm hard as she raced in front of me because she was in a hurry. On my first day, I felt an atmosphere I’d never known at home. Relaxed. The grown-ups were nice to me. Made sure I felt at ease. Though I was wary at first. Also, I couldn’t understand anything that was being said.

  On the second day, Miss Sergeant stood at the front of the classroom, held up a bright green mitten and asked if one of us had lost it. I recognised it straight away but was too scared to admit it was mine. Probably because I didn’t have the language skills to own up to it or, more likely, I thought I’d be punished for losing it. At first, I would hide in the store-cupboard. When Miss Sergeant found me there crying during playtime, she told me, in a kind voice, not to worry that my mother would soon come and take me home. Gradually, I got used to the kindness and school became my refuge. There, I could stop treading on eggshells.

  Looking even further back, I now realise my mother had been knocking me about since I was very small. I still have two little scars on my head. They come out of my hairline and onto my forehead. Once when I asked my mother how I’d got them, she said it happened when she was combing my hair as a baby; she’d pressed too hard on the corner of the comb. It bled quite a lot, she said. They must have been deep cuts. And she must have done it on purpose. If you’d cut a baby’s head once and it started bleeding, you wouldn’t carry on and do the same thing again unless it was deliberate. Did she look down at the baby in her arms, at her head of fine dark hair, and say “I hate you.” If she’d left me in a shoe-box on the church steps, she’d have done me a favour.