The Sicilian Woman's Daughter

by Linda Lo Scuro

  “Oh, there’s lots to do there. I’ll be reading, walking, writing.”

  “I tell you, quiet life not for you. What you write?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find something. My head’s always buzzing with ideas. A book probably.”

  “You no see you Zia. Me family.”

  “I need to get away from the hustle and bustle of life here,” I say. She knows what I mean. And she knows I won’t be back to see her.

  I kiss her on both cheeks, go down the path to her gate, and fasten it firmly behind me. Wave goodbye to her. She’s standing there in the porch of her house in her pink slippers. Small, grey, and frail. Nothing like you’d imagine a murderer.

  “Zia wait for you,” she calls after me, “you come back and see you Zia.”

  Without answering, I walk away with conviction. Without looking back.

  During the weekend, Humps and I talk about going to Dorset. He understands that I need to get away. Actually, he doesn’t look too happy either. “Are you OK?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes, just tired. You know, end of the week and all that.”

  “We’ll have a good rest this weekend. It will do you the world of good,” I say.

  “I certainly agree to that,” he says.

  By Sunday afternoon, Humps perks up a little, so I think I can ask him, if he minds if I go to Dorset tomorrow. He is surprised at first, but readily agrees. “I’ll come down after you whenever work permits,” he says.

  “Great,” I say, “I don’t want to be away from you for too long. I’ll go and pack a few things. I’ll take the Golf. Is there any petrol in it?”

  “I’m not sure,” he says, “we haven’t used it for a long time.”

  “Well, I hope the battery’s still working, then.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Monday 16th October

  The Golf starts up and I set off for our cottage. Driving along the M3, I think that I will stay in Dorset for as long as it takes me to sort myself out. Think through everything that happened in Sicily. Hopefully, Humps can join me soon, then we’ll have a lovely time together.

  Everything just as we left it last time we were here. The grandfather clock in the entrance shows the right time: 1.25. I open the living room curtains to let the daylight in. The lawn is overgrown, weeds everywhere. I must remind our odd-job man, Nigel, to come and cut it. He doesn’t seem to have been for a while. I open the windows to get some fresh air into the place. It’s just started to drizzle. There’s wood stacked up on both sides of the fireplace. It’s quite chilly. I could light a fire when I’ve been to the local shop to stock up on food. I must get a bunch of fresh flowers to brighten up the living room. There are little bulges in the wallpaper due to humidity. We must have it stripped off, waterproof the walls, and put up new wallpaper. A white background with little coloured flowers dotted about on it would be nice. Which bag did I put my umbrella in? Ah, here it is. I think I’ll have a brandy before going out. I get a heavy crystal tumbler from the drinks’ cabinet and pour a smidgen into it. I hold the bottle up to the light – there’s not much left, I’ll buy another one.

  When I get to the gate, Yvonne from next door comes out and says: “Maria, I saw your car in the drive and thought you must be here.”

  “Yes, I only arrived about an hour ago,” I say.

  “Well, I was saying to Henry, we haven’t seen Maria and Humphrey for a while. Welcome back.”

  “Thanks, Yvonne. Humphrey isn’t actually with me, I came down on my own. He’ll be here as soon as his work allows him to be.”

  “Oh, well, you enjoy yourself, dear. Do pop round and say hello to Henry. He gets so lonely now he can’t get around much.”

  Henry used to work for the ministry of defence. All very hush-hush work. Now he’s bedridden.

  “Of course, I will,” I say. “I’ll pop round after dinner this evening. Is 7.30 alright with you?”

  It is still raining. There’s nobody else on the beach. The only company I have are the gulls squawking and the waves breaking. I fight with my umbrella as it turns inside-out several times. Humps hasn’t answered my text message yet – he’s usually very quick. Maybe he’s busy working. After we came back from Sicily, Humps shunned me when I tried to hug him. That had never happened before. He was enthusiastic about my coming to Dorset. We’ve had such a good marriage. The trip to Sicily might have changed all that. Humps and my daughters now know the truth about my family. In a sense, it’s a relief. Emma reacted like me when I was a girl, she wants nothing to do with Sicily. Shut it out. Whereas Clara has embraced it. Humps? I don’t know which way it’ll go. He’s seen me in another context, and he may not like that added facet. Another reason for coming to Dorset is that I want to see how long it takes him to follow me here. The ball is in his court. If he’s here after a couple of days, all will be good, but if he doesn’t come then I’ll have to look reality in the face. Resign myself to the idea that he doesn’t want me any more. The rain is much heavier now. I make my way back, stop at the deserted bus shelter to check if there’s a text from Humps. Nothing yet.

  “How’s Humphrey,” Henry asks.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” I say. “He’s very busy nowadays.”

  “So, when’s he coming down from the big smoke?”

  “Maybe in a couple of days. It depends on his workload.”

  “When he’s here, he’ll have to come and have a little tipple one evening. Even two or three. Evenings that is. And tipples as well...” he jokes. Yvonne and I laugh with him.

  “I’m sure he’ll love that,” I say thinking how much nicer our neighbours here are than in London.

  “Nigel hasn’t mown our lawn, or tidied up our garden,” I say. I must phone him.

  “Oh, of course, you don’t know,” Yvonne says, “the poor chap died.”

  “What!” I say.

  “Yes, the poor man had a big heart-attack,” Yvonne says. “I tried to phone you a few times about a couple of weeks back. I thought you must have been on holiday. We’ve found a young man to do our garden. I tried phoning to ask if you wanted yours doing as well. His wife takes on cleaning jobs, if you’re interested. Mind you, we hid our number, so you wouldn’t have known I phoned; habit, you know. Then our son and his family came to stay, and I forgot all about it.”

  “Thank you for trying,” I say, “I’m so sorry about Nigel. Can’t have been more than fifty, surely. He was a jovial sort. It must have been awful for his family – all of a sudden like that. I’d love the new man’s phone number. The cottage can do with a good clean as well.”

  “Where did you go on holiday?” Henry asks.

  “To Italy,” I say.

  “We love Italy, don’t we?” Henry says to Yvonne looking for consent.

  “We spent some happy times there on holiday, didn’t we, love?” Yvonne says.

  Henry nods and says: “Those beautiful rolling hills of Tuscany, the wine and food. We love it. We could go back, couldn’t we, love?”

  “Oh, I’d like that,” Yvonne says.

  We chat for a while longer, then I leave.

  It’s 9.30 and Humps hasn’t answered. I try to phone home. He’s not there. Then I try his mobile. He’s not answering. I switch on the TV, see if there’s anything worth watching. I’m so confused, I can’t take in a thing, instead I get ready for bed. Have a shower, brush my teeth, and apply night cream. I’m getting so old, I think, as I look in the mirror. I go to bed with my Kindle, place my mobile on Humps’s pillow in case he calls. I scroll through the items on my Kindle and settle for Shakespeare’s Sonnets. No way I can concentrate on a novel. I then lie awake listening to the wind and a tree branch scratching against the window. Sleep overtakes me. It is about midnight when a text message wakes me. It’s Humps: Sorry darling for not replying before. Mayhem at bank. Been in meeting all evening. We have huge problem. Will call you in the morning. Good night. xxx

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Tuesday 17th October

  After my porridge, I try to ring
Humps. The house phone rings on and on. At last, he answers. “Hi, darling.”

  “Oh, my darling. What happened yesterday? I’ve been so worried.” I say.

  “Absolute chaos at the bank. We don’t know which way to turn.”

  “Why? What’s happened?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it on the phone, I’ll tell you all about it when I’m there.” His comment briefly reminds me of Zia not wanting to talk about important issues on the phone.

  “Fine,” I say, relieved that he seems to feel the same about me. “I’ll have a nice dinner waiting for you. And Henry next door’s looking forward to having a chat and a drink with you.”

  “Have to love you and leave you, darling. Must get to the bank. I might be able to come tomorrow evening, if things settle down at work.”

  “That’s brilliant,” I feel revitalised. I phone the new gardener. His wife answers. She says that he’s busy all day today, that he might find time tomorrow to mow the lawn, but nothing more than that. The rest of the garden will have to wait. But she can come over to clean our cottage late afternoon. She’ll take her kids to her mother after she’s picked them up from school, then come here.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Wednesday 18th October – evening

  The Mercedes has just come into the driveway. I rush out to greet Humps. He’s happy to see me, but his face is drawn. He can’t have had much sleep. Maybe he hasn’t eaten much either. Because I didn’t know what time he was arriving, I made vegetable lasagne, which will keep in the oven.

  He looks unsettled. I know my Humps. “Darling, what on earth’s the matter?”

  He sits down on the sofa in his dark blue suit. He’s come straight from work. That’s a first because usually when he gets home, he comes and says hello to me, then changes into his jeans. He sighs.

  “Darling you must tell me.”

  “There’s an enormous problem at work.”

  “Well,” I say, shaking my head, “what is it? Tell me.”

  “It’s not easy...”

  “Maybe but just try and tell me.”

  His voice shakes: Money’s gone missing – a great big hole.”

  “Oh, my God! How much?”

  “Just over fifteen million pounds.”

  “You what! Fifteen million? And how did it happen?”

  “We have some dormant accounts and...”

  “What’s a dormant account?”

  “When there’s been no movement on an account for a long time. Maybe because the holder is elderly and doesn’t need the money, or for whatever other reason.”

  “And?”

  What he says next chills me.

  “And, together with some of my colleagues, we invested money on the stock market and lost it. Problem was that we had to keep taking more and more money and investing it to cover the losses, hence making more losses. As I said, we’ve now lost fifteen million.”

  “Just a moment. Let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that you took money, which wasn’t yours, from savers’ bank accounts, and took risks with it.”

  His head is in his hands, and his gaze is fixed on the fireplace. “If we keep throwing money at it, the loss will probably get bigger. Essentially, that’s it”

  “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” I get up and pace up and down the living room. “Humps you’ve stolen money. Money you don’t even need for God’s sake.”

  “It went wrong.”

  “I know it’s gone wrong. But, you stole money!” I’m livid, I wring my hands. He sits there like a battered dog.

  I put my hands in my hair and say: “Never, ever, in my life could I have imagined that you of all people would steal! I’m astounded.”

  “I’m sorry, but it went wrong.”

  “So, who are the other people involved?”

  “Essentially, Frank and Jimmy. We operated together. But all the members of the board know about it.”

  “Great, bloody great! Because you’re all senior you cover each other’s arses. Have you done this before?”

  “Yes, well, not so often, but it always worked out.”

  “That is to say...” I wave my hand towards myself, meaning come on tell me the rest.

  “Exactly as I said. We’ve done it before...”

  “...and you always got away with it.” I finish his sentence.

  He looks down at his Church’s.

  “So, you three contrived, and made illegal money although you have big salaries, bonuses, and perks.” He’s now looking at me, an imploring look, as if I shouldn’t be so harsh.

  “...and what did you do with this money?”

  “Well, we’re running three houses, and two cars, for starters, we’ve been on expensive holidays, the girls’ school fees... and we didn’t always make that much.”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve been doing this since our daughters were girls? Jesus, I don’t believe it. Tell me it isn’t true.”

  He fixed his gaze on the flowers on the pine chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, and so am I. Bloody downright bloody sorry. And all the time when I was feeling guilty about not telling you of the dirty dealings in my family, you were thieving. It had to go wrong sooner or later, didn’t it? If the authorities find out, you’re finished. It’ll be all over the papers. You might even go to prison.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And, you couldn’t stop, could you? And, another thing. You can’t say you did it to keep me. I grew up in poverty, so poor that when I was little I had ice on the inside of my bedroom window in the mornings in winter. My father only let me have the infra-red on while I changed into my pyjamas... I can do hardship... No, no, no, our lifestyle more or less matched our earnings. You didn’t spend it all on me and the girls. What else did you do with the money you made?”

  “Well... public relations... We, um, the main reason why we did it was so we could organise PR parties – all the senior people at the bank took part.”

  “Parties! Parties!” I am seething. “You organised parties! Your bank took money from accounts and organised parties? So these were the so-called working dinners, were they?”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you they were parties.”

  “Where were these parties held? I don’t remember being invited to any parties.”

  “In the big plush London hotels. Wives weren’t invited. It was policy, no wives or girlfriends. We invited businessmen, politicians, oligarchs, CEOs, high-ranking civil servants... all influential men.”

  “Just a moment! I don’t for one second believe that you organised parties for men only. Were there no women there at all?”

  He swallowed hard and didn’t answer.

  “So...” I say.

  “We procured women from escort agencies...”

  “What?” I start crying.

  He gets up from the sofa and comes over to where I’m standing. Putting his arms round me, and holding me close, he says: “Mary, I’m so sorry.”

  So he’s been to bed with these escorts? That’s why he feels he needs to come over and hug me – to deaden the blow.

  “No, Humps, no. Please tell me it isn’t true,” I say sobbing into his chest, “please tell me you haven’t been with other women. Please. I couldn’t stand it.”

  “Mary, I’m so sorry.”

  I untangle myself from him, pushing him away from me by hitting his chest with my fists. I go over to the flowers, grab the vase and, with all my might, throw it straight through the window. Shards land both inside and outside the cottage.

  “Please don’t...” he says.

  “Please don’t what? Don’t you dare touch me,” I growl at him. “Just don’t fucking touch me.” I grab the gold carriage clock off the mantelpiece and throw that through the second pane of glass together with the Wedgwood ornaments, and the Capodimonte figurines. The fireplace tool set is next, I hurl it through the third pane. Then, I seize the frame holding the photo of us on a cruise ship, happy and smiling; I yank
the back off, rip the picture out, tear it into little pieces, and throw them up in the air. I slam the frame on the floor and stamp on it. He is gob smacked. “Yes, that’s right,” I howl out: “It’s my Sicilian temperament. I’m letting it all gush out. None of your stiff-fucking-upper-fucking-lip. I’m going back to London!”

  “You’re in no state to drive, please...” he pleads.

  “Don’t you dare touch me,” I hiss. “Don’t you fucking dare touch me.”

  I storm to the corridor, take the keys off the table, get my coat and handbag, look back and shout: “And don’t you dare fucking follow me back to our flat.” I slam the front door behind me, kick it, then get into the Mercedes and drive away.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Thursday 19th October 2017

  I sobbed into my pillow during the night. My eyes are red-raw. I must pull myself together. Calm down. Straighten out my thoughts. I pat cold water on my face, then make my porridge. I pick at it for a while, then go and throw it down the toilet. What am I going to do? I need to speak to someone about Humps betraying me. Is there anyone other than Zia? Emma or Clara? No, he’s their father, they shouldn’t know about this. That would shatter the image of their precious daddy. Susi? She’ll wonder what the fuss is about.

  It has to be Zia. I go to her, see if she’ll open the door even if it’s morning. I ring the bell and then shout “Zia,” through the letter box knowing that she can’t hear me through two doors.

  “Ah, Maria!” she says opening the door. “I no think you come back to see you Zia again. What matter with you? You look like ghost.”

  “Zia, I’m gutted.”

  “What you problem? You white. You no worry. Zia sort for you.”

  “It’s Humps,” I say walking down the corridor, past the row of popes, to the living room. “He’s been with escorts.”

  “What you say escort?” she doesn’t understand.

  “Prostitutes, bagascie, whores, troie, tarts, puttane, sluts, zoccule...” I shout.

  “Minghia!”