The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  We lived with my parents at first, until we had enough income to pay for a place of our own. It was easy. Luca simply shacked up in my bedroom with me. I had a big single bed, and that had to do for both of us. For the time-being. And, it was in this bed that we first had sex.

  Weakened, I still had to reassemble myself after the trauma in Sicily. Get my head together. Get some strength back. Start eating more. But being back in England was fantastic. Everything looked gorgeous to me. Everything: the leaves swaying in the crisp wind, the rain, the cracked pavement slabs, the daily newspapers hanging on a rack outside dingy newsagents, the smell wafting out of the greasy-spoon cafes, and even the broken litter bins. Not even a pure thoroughbred English person could love the place as much as me. I can guarantee that.

  School had begun. I went to my old college to see if I could speak to Miss Green and was told to wait until her lessons were over. She was so pleased to see me. After telling her about my marriage, I said I’d decided to put off going to university until the following academic year. It was already November by then, and I was in no mindset for studying. Also, I needed to help Luca out. Get us both out of my parents’ house for starters. He couldn’t go on living with them after we split up. And, with three words of English and without a job, how was he supposed to survive on his own?

  Life is full of surprises. It turned out I was the one to be jilted. Luca couldn’t adapt to England. And wasn’t even prepared to try. Quite frankly, we had nothing in common. On top of that he hated the miserable weather, missed the sunshine, missed those wild beasts of his mother and sister, missed sitting out in the balmy piazza in the evenings, watching his favourite football team on TV every Sunday at the bar. And he missed playing football for The Village team. The new goalkeeper was pretty useless, so his mates wanted Luca back. They were losing just about every game.

  Going back was the only option, he made that clear. Staying in England was my only option, I made that clear. I asked him to be patient for however long it took me to find a job and a cheap place to live. Only then should he return home, after I had sorted myself out and away from my mother. Once we moved out to a bedsit, we saved up for his flight. I had found him work as a waiter in an Italian restaurant and had got myself an easy office job.

  But I had to take time off work because I was becoming increasingly pale and tired. My doctor took a blood sample and discovered that I was severely anaemic, and I had an awful pain in my lower back. He sent me for an X-ray, one of my kidneys was seriously damaged. “Have you had an accident? Or a big fall?” he asked. “Your kidney is in a terrible condition. The damage is stopping iron getting to your blood. I’m afraid you will have to have it removed.” I told him that I’d had a fall down a rocky slope in Sicily. “Unless it was a very long slope, I do not think that could be the cause,” he said.

  “It was a very long slope, indeed,” I argued.

  Of course, it was Peppina’s stamping on the kidney that brought this about. My hatred for her was immense. I will get my revenge one day, I thought. But later I settled into a happy, comfortable lifestyle with Humps and, with time, revenge went to the back burner of my mind.

  Luca looked after me while I recovered from my operation.

  Stefano got married at the beginning of December 1974. A shotgun wedding in two senses of the expression. Stefano told me himself that he’d be getting married. He also said that when he’d heard the news about my engagement to Luca, his relationship with Romina, his future wife, was well on its way. Stefano’s pride had been hurt, so he had to make it clear that it was he who’d left me, and not the other way round.

  I’ll never forget their wedding and it deserves to be related in some length. My parents, and Luca and I, went to Zia’s house in the morning of Stefano’s big day. Luca was still in London for three more weeks. Zia, Silvio and Stefano were at home. Everyone else was in church, including Susi, with her new husband Enzo, who later told me what happened there.

  Zia and Silvio seemed worried when we arrived. Essentially, Stefano had changed his mind. He locked himself in his bedroom and refused to come out. He didn’t answer his family’s loud shouting and swearing, disgraziatu bastardo, going on behind his door. Smartly dressed, complete with carnations in button holes, we were in despair as to how to get Stefano to the church. He had found himself another woman, an Englishwoman, who had by far overshadowed the love Stefano had for Romina. Stefano hadn’t had the guts to tell his future bride, and now he was adamant he wouldn’t go through with the marriage. That’s what he thought. But think again. You don’t mess with Sicilian women. He had a choice of: his wedding today, or his funeral in a few days’ time. He had to be at that altar dead or alive.

  The priest was getting restless. Looked at his watch. Five minutes overdue. Grooms were always supposed to be there early. This one was nowhere to be seen. The bride would soon arrive. There was whispering between the church benches. A young man, one of the bride’s relatives, hurriedly went to look for a phone-box and warn the bride not to set out. Too late. He came face to face with her Rolls on his way to the phone-box. He ran into the middle of the road in front of the car and insisted it stop. Having been told that the bridegroom hadn’t put in an appearance, the driver, one of the bride’s cousins, parked at the side of the road. They all discussed animatedly whether they should wait there, or take the bride back home. If he didn’t appear soon, then the male relatives of the bride would go to Zia’s house and totally beat the shit out of Stefano. That was unanimous. One of the young men had a gun and said not to let Stefano go anywhere near him because he wouldn’t be able to stop himself shooting the minghiuni. And, with that he fired a warning shot up in the air outside the church. The shooter went into the church and hid the gun under the robe of a Saint Anthony’s statue.

  On a street, near the church, red-faced with fury, the bride’s father got out of the Rolls, started kicking a tyre while shouting to Susi, standing on the kerb across the road with Enzo, “I’ll kill that stra-minghiuni fittente of your brother with my own hands. God is my witness.” A couple of passers-by stopped briefly to watch. “Whacha looking at, fuck off!”

  Enzo was about to cross the road and give the bride’s father a good hiding for insulting his brother-in-law. Susi managed to drag her husband back to the pavement.

  Having heard that the bride’s car was round the corner, Romina’s mother ran out of the church to the car to console her daughter. She yelled at her husband telling him to calm down: “Maybe his car’s broken down.” As an answer, her husband kicked her in the behind. Romina yelled “pig” through the car window to her father. Then she locked herself in the Rolls. Through the window, the father threatened to hit her too, for wanting to marry such a minghiuni. “I’ll kill you and him.” The bride unfolded a lace hankie from her clutch bag, wiped her tears. Then she howled into her bouquet.

  Meanwhile at Stefano’s house, we watched while Silvio tried to break the bedroom door down. Zia, who was holding the self-same big stick she used to chase off Silvio’s girlfriends, shouted: “Big bastardo son just like you father. God in heaven rest my Tony soul,” as she made the sign of the cross. Next she ran outside round the house to make sure he didn’t flee from the window, followed by Luca. The door caved in. Zia had been right. Stefano was climbing down the drainpipe. Zia was waiting for him at the bottom. His feet hadn’t touched the ground when she started beating him for all she was worth with the stick. Luca tried to stop her. Stefano couldn’t go back up because Silvio was showing him his fists from the window.

  Zia threw her head back, lost her hat, looked up at Silvio and said, “Come down, put my big bastardo son in car.” Then she made a gesture of anger typical of Sicilian women: she put her own right hand in her mouth and bit it hard leaving a semi-circle teeth sign on her hand. Silvio ran out and, together with Luca and my father, forced Stefano into the back of the green Volvo. Zia and Luca sandwiched Stefano between them, locking the doors in case he tried to escape. Silvio jumped into th
e driver’s seat, while I sat in the front passenger seat next to him. My parents followed in their car. Zia shouted at Stefano all the way to the church. Calling him names while she repeatedly spat on her right hand and tried to tidy up his unkempt hair. “You get married, you look like tramp.” When she finished tidying his hair, she slapped him in the face for good measure.

  Our car, containing the precious groom, overtook the bride’s. Romina’s family sighed with relief.

  But when Stefano arrived at the church, two policemen where standing at the entrance. Someone had phoned the police. It couldn’t have been one of the wedding guests because Sicilians sort things out amongst themselves so never call the police. It must have been one of the residents living nearby who heard the shot. The police asked for everyone to come out of the church. They searched a few men, but no incriminating weapon was found on any of them. One woman told the police that it had been a firecracker to celebrate the wedding.

  The police disappeared and Stefano was marched to the altar by Zia and Silvio. A couple of young men, on Romina’s side of the family, moved in to stand behind Stefano in case he tried to run off. When the bride appeared at the door, linking arms with her father, the organist put all his zest into piping up the wedding march filling the church with joy as the whole congregation stood up ready to partake in Romina and Stefano’s best day of their lives.

  Two highlights stuck in my mind about the wedding reception. The first was the cutting of the cake, and the second was the band.

  When it was time for the happy couple to cut the cake, Melina, the bride’s mother got there first. She was still smarting about the wedding farce. The humiliation he’d brought upon her daughter in front of her friends and family. Now she needed to make a statement.

  Melina held the cake-knife straight into Stefano’s face, the tip resting right between his eyes. One of the disco balls, glittering above, caught the light and made the knife glint. Silence. All the guests watched. Even a baby, who’d been exasperating everyone, stopped crying. It was a dramatic moment. After the suspense, Melina eventually said to Stefano, “You see this knife?” Stefano nodded backwards trying not go get his face cut. “If you as much as harm a hair on Romina’s head, this is what you’ll get in your stomach.” Melina handed the knife to her daughter and said, “Congratulations.” As the bride held the knife on the cake, Stefano lay his hand on hers. And the knife sank into the soft cream and sponge, making a clean cut through the white icing.

  Zia would not seek revenge for Melina’s outburst. This time it didn’t need setting right. Stefano deserved it.

  The band struck up the Sicilian song “La luna amenzu ’o mari, Mamma mia m’ha maritare.” Which loosely translated means “The moon is in the middle of the sea, Mamma mia, I’m going to get married.” The tenor, Leonardino, little Leonard, appeared on the stage a couple of minutes later to sing the song. An Elvis look-alike. Hair, parting on the left and greased right over. Little Leonard was famous, and admired in the community, for three reasons:

  The first was that he had a most beautiful voice. That’s why he was invited to every Italian wedding in the area. He’d sing his heart out. But he had a technique that made him even more popular. Guests would crowd around his feet near the stage and implore him to sing. He let the music play on and didn’t start singing until the cheering was loud enough. After that he went on singing long into the night.

  The second was that he’d never done a day’s work in his life. He was blighted by perennial backache. Not when dancing though. He jumped up and down like a spring. His tarantella couldn’t be matched by anyone.

  And the third was that he was living in a household with two sisters. Leonardino had it all organised. One sister went out to work while the other stayed at home to look after the house and their four children: two girls by one of the women, and two boys by the other. The children, all short like him, had inherited his musical skills: they played instruments, sang like angels, and danced like professionals. The family broke out into singing and dancing whenever they could, delighting visitors to their house who were always welcome. This commune must be nearing its golden anniversary by now.

  The cake was delicious.

  Luca flew off, back to his native land just before Christmas so he could spend the festivities with his family. I accompanied him to Heathrow. Though there was no future in our relationship, I was sad to see him go. He had been my nurse and my friend. I didn’t tell my parents he’d gone and spent Christmas alone. It was great. But my mother found out from Peppina between Christmas and the New Year. With the new academic year getting closer, I had to save money. Next autumn, I started my university course and changed to working part-time in Sainsbury’s, so I had time left for my studies. I lived on my own in the bedsit right through university, until I married Humps.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sunday 3rd September

  And now, back to the present. It is always a special day when we see our children. Clara arrives first, then Emma, Mark with little Benjamin, soon follow. Benjamin, of course, is the star – and he knows it. He is thirteen months old, not walking yet, but is standing on his own.

  “Hey, I’ve got two little bears for you,” I say, picking Benjamin up in my arms and taking him to the bedroom to get them. He is thrilled, shakes one by the arm and throws it to the floor. We take the bears into the living room and join the others.

  Humps is in the kitchen cooking Sunday lunch. Nobody’s Sunday roasts come anywhere near Humps’s. He learnt to cook from his mother, Penelope. That’s something she is really good at. I’ve already set the table. Clara tells us about her move, how she still has a lot to do to finish furnishing her new flat, and how it is made difficult by her being busy at work as well. She graduated from Oxford in History of Art and worked for the Uffizi in Florence for two years. She is more similar to me than to Humps, with dark features. Whereas Emma has Humps’s green eyes and light complexion. Emma and her husband were on the same PPE – Philosophy, Politics and Economics – degree course in Oxford. We managed to get our daughters into Humps’s Alma mater. Both Emma and Mark work for the government. But they don’t talk about their work, they talk about Benjamin all the time. He is now saying ‘Thank you’ when anyone gives him anything. He also says ‘grazie.’ Emma speaks to him in Italian because she thinks he should grow up speaking a second European language. My daughters are both fluent in Italian, we spent our summers in the Dolomites when they were girls, where they also went to Italian language classes. As for the rest, they are as English as they come. They have as little idea about Sicily as Humps has.

  The kids want to know how I am getting on. Am I enjoying my retirement? “Yes, I am, very much.”

  “Mummy, what do you do all day?” Clara asks.

  “All the usual humdrum stuff like housework, shopping, cooking...”

  “And she spends an awful lot of time at Zia’s as well, don’t you, darling?” Humps shouts out from our open-plan kitchen. Emma looks at me askance.

  “She’s elderly,” I say, “so I pop in and say hello. Nice walk along the river, before the underground. Gets me out. Some fresh air.”

  “And we’re going to Sicily at the end of the month,” Humps again, instead of concentrating on his cooking.

  The kids want to know all about this. Mark says he’s never been to Sicily and would love to go. Before he has time to suggest that they come with us, I say: “Wouldn’t it be lovely to go on a tour of the whole island in spring when the almonds blossom?” I go on to point out how it is still very hot in the south, far too hot for Benjamin. That seems to have put them off.

  Lunch is ready so we all go to our places. Benjamin joins us in his high chair, still the centre of attraction. We talk, laugh and have a great time. I love my family. Then, when the time comes for dessert, I fish out the cassata ice-creams left over from last week’s barbecue. There are five – exactly right.

  “Mary’s been going to the amusement arcade as well,” Humps says.


  Thanks, Humps, I think. The kids want to know all about that too, of course. I play along with the idea that I am going a bit doolally in my old age. Then, to take the attention off me and into the public arena, I make a remark about Brexit. That gets them all going. While they get animated about politics, I take Benjamin over to my favourite armchair, and we play at throwing teddies onto the floor.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Monday 4th September

  Back to another trip to Zia’s. It is one of those great English days when the weather hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to do. Zia is on her own when I arrive.

  “Cuppa tea?”

  “Yes, please. What delights have you baked up today?”

  “Cup cakes,” she says, “white icing on top.”

  She brings them into the living room. “They look tasty. Only good ingredients in them, eh, Zia? No nasty e-numbers?”

  “These only for friends,” she says.

  “Zia, I was thinking of going back to see Alberto tomorrow. See if he’s told his wife. What do you think?”

  “Ah, good idea you go see what big bastardo decide.”

  She takes a key out of her blouse pocket then opens the padlock on the pantry door. That key is on her all the time, in some place or other. She goes into the pantry, pulling the door to behind her, then tugs on the string hanging from the ceiling to turn the light-bulb on.

  “It’s pretty spooky in there, Zia.” She has to go down three steps to get to the shelves, and it is pitch black at the bottom. “Can I come in?”